


,0 a 








■O- X 






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POEMS, 



WILLIAM COWPEll, 



OF THE INNER TEMPLE, ESQ. 



CONTAINING 



HIS POSTHUMOUS POETRY 



A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE. 

BY HIS KINSMAN, 
JOHS iOHNSON, L.L.D. 

RECTOR OF YAXHAM WITH WELBOUKNE, 
IN NORFOLK. 



His virtues form'd the luagick of his song. 

Cawper''s Epitapii. 



BOSTON : 



PIBLISHED BV WELLS ANC LILLY. 

18 1/). 



JA 



TO THE 

RT. HON. EARL SPENCER. 

MY LORD, 

A GENERAL Fcquest liaviug encourag- 
ed me to become the Editor of a more 
complete collection of the posthumous 
Compositions of mj^ revered Relation, 
the Poet CowPER, than has hitherto 
appeared, I consider it as my duty to 
the deceased, to inscribe the Volume 
that contains them to his exalted 
Friend, by whom the genius of the 
Poet was as justly appreciated, as I lie 
virtues of the Moralist were eiiectua:- 
ly patronized. It would be imperti- 
uent in me to attempt any new enco- 
mium on a Writer so highly endeared 
to every cultivated mind in' that coun- 
try which it was (he favourite exercise 
of his patriotlck s,>iiit to describe an4 



to celebrate : but ! may be allovveiJ lo 
observe, that one of the few additions 
inserted in this collection will be par- 
ticularly welcome to every reader of 
sensibility, as an eulogy on that attrac- 
tive quality so gracefully visible in all 
the writings of Cowper. 

Permit me to close this imperfect 
tribute of my respect, by saying, it is 
my deep sense of those important ser- 
vices, for which the afflicted Poet was 
indebted to the kindness of Lord Spen- 
cer, that impels nie to the liberty I 
am* now taking, of thus publickly de- 
claring myself 

Your Lordship's 
Highly obliged and 
Very faithful servant, 

JOHN JOHNSON. 



PREFACE. 

It is incumbent on me to apprize the 
Reader, that by far the greater part of 
the Poems, to whicii I have now the hon- 
our to introduce him, have been ah-eady 
published by Mr. Hayley. That endear- 
ed friend of the deceased Poet having en- 
riched his copious and faithCu! Life of Him 
with a large collection of his minor Pieces, 
soon after his death, and having since giv- 
en to the world a distinct Edition of his 
Translations from the Latin and Italian 
verses of Milton, every thing seemed ac_ 
complished that the merits and memory 
of a Poet so justly popular as Cowper, ap- 
peared to require. But of late years a 
fresh and detached Collection of all his 
Poems being wished for by his friends, I 
was flattered by their request, that I 
would present them to the publick as the 
Editor of his third poetical volume. 



IV PREFACE. 

Having accepted this honourable invi- 
tation, ray first care was to assemble as 
many of the editions of the two former 
Volumes as I could possibly meet with, 
that nothing might be admitted into their 
projected companion, which the publick al- 
ready possessed in them. With one slight 
exception I believe I secured that desir- 
able point. My next employment was to 
make such a copious but careful selection 
from the unpublished Poetry of Cowper, 
which I happily possessed, and which I 
had only imparted to a few friends, as 
while it gratified his admirers, might in 
no instance detract from his poetical re. 
putation. I should tremble for the haz- 
ard to which my partiality to the compo- 
sitions of my beloved Relation exposed 
me in discharging this part of my office, 
if I did not hope to find in the reader a 
fondness of the same kind ; and if I were 
not assured that a careless or slovenly 
habit, in the production of his verses, has 



PREFACE. V 

never been imputed to the Author of the 
Task. 

The materials of the Volume being 
thus provided, the ascertaining their dates 
was my remaining concern. In a few in- 
stances, I found them affixed to the Poems 
by their author ; a few more I collected 
from intimations in his Letters : bui in 
several the difficulty of discovering them 
pressed upon myself. This was especial- 
ly the case with the very interesting ad- 
ditional Poem addressed by Cowper to an 
unknown Lady, on reading " the Prayer 
for Indifference.''* Of the existence of 
these verses I had not even heard, till I 
was called on to superintend the Vol- 
ume, in which they make their first pub- 
lick appearance. I am inclined to believe 
that during the ten yearsofmy doraestick 
intercourse with the poet, they had never 
occurred to his recollection. He appears 
to have imparted them only to his highly 
valued and affectionate relative, the Rev- 



VI PREFACE. 

erend Martin Madan, brother of the late 
Bishop of Peterborough, from whose Com- 
mon-place Book they were transcribed by 
his daughter, and kindly comnaunicated to 
me. There being nothing in Mr. IVIadan's 
copy of these verses, from which their 
date could be inferred, it was only by a 
minute comparison of the poem itself, 
with the various local and mental circum- 
stances, which his Life exhibits, that I 
was enabled to discover the year of their 
production. The labour attending this 
and other instances of research, in which 
I have been obliged to engage for the pur- 
pose of ascertaining the dates of several 
minor poems, will be best understood by 
those who are practically acquainted with 
similar investigations. After all, there 
are some of which no diligence of mine 
could develope the exact time ; but with 
the greater number I trust their p'oper 
order of succession has been carefully se- 
cured to them. 



PREFACE. VU 

From this brief account of the Volume 
before the reader, 1 pass on to the Me- 
moir of its Author. Had 1 not already 
embarked in a preparation of the Poems, 
when I was requested to prefix a sketch o^ 
the poet's life, an unaffected distrust of 
ray ability to achieve it wouid have pre- 
cluded me from making such an attempt ; 
but a peculiar interest in these relicks of 
Cowper havinji been wrought into my 
feelings, while I was arranging them for 
the Press, I was unwilling to shrink from 
a proposed task, by which I might hope 
to contribute, in some degree, to the ex- 
panding renown of my revered relation. 
I therefore ventured to advance on the 
only path in the wide field of Biography, 
in which my humble steps could accompa- 
ny Cowper, namely that, in which I could 
simply 



retrace 



" ( \s In a map the voyager his course) 

" The windings of his way thro' many year?." 



Vlll PREFACE. 

Into this path it might seem presump- 
tuous in me to invite those whom my kind 
and constant friend Mr. Hayley has made 
intimately acquainted with Cowper by his 
extensive and just Biography ; but to 
such readers as happen not to have pe- 
rused his more copious Work. I may ven- 
ture to recommend the following " Map of 
Cowper's Life," as possessng one of its 
prime characteristicks, namely. Fidelity 
of Delineation. 

Bedford, Jpril, 1815. 



CONTENTS, 



Memoir OF THE Author xi 

Verses written on finding the heel of a shoe 1 
Stanzas on the first Publication of Sir Charles 

Grandison 3 

Epistle to Robert Lloyd, Esq 4 

Fifth Satire of the First Book of Horace . 8 

Wint!] Satire of the First Book of Horace 16 

Address to Miss on reading the Prayer 

for Indifference 22 

Translation from Virgil ...... 27 

Ovid. Trist. Lib. V. Eleg. XII. ... 41 

A Tale founded on a Fact 44 

Translation of a simile in Paradise Lost . 46 

of Drydeu's Epigram on Milton ib 

To the Rev. Mr. Newton, on his Return 

from Ramsgate 47 

Love Abused 48 

Poetical Epistle to Lady Austen ... 49 

Fioni a Letter to the Rev. Mr, Newton . b3 

TheColubriad 54 

On Friendsiiip 36 

On the Loss of the Royal George ... 63 
In SubmersioneraNavIgii, cui Georgius Re- 
gale Nomen, inditum 65 

Song on Peace 66 

written at the request of Lady Aus- 
ten 67 

Verses from a Poem entlt'ed Valediction 68 
In Brevitatem Vits Spatii Hominlbns con- 

ce.'si ' 70 

On tiie Shortness of Human Life ... 71 

Epitaph on Johnson 72 



X CONTENTS. 

To Miss C , on her Birth Day . . 72 

Gratitude , . . 73 

The Flatting Mill 75 

Lines for a Memorial of Ashley Cowper, 

Esq 77 

On the Queen's Visit to London ... 78 

Tlie Cock- fighter's Garland 82 

On thf Benefit received by his Majesty 

f; om Sea-bathing 85 

Hor. L\K I. Ode IX 86 

Hor. Lib. 1. Ode XXXVIII 87 

Hor. B. I. Ode XXXVIIl 

Hor. Lib. II. Ode XVI 88 

Lalin Verses to the Memory of Dr. Lloyd 90 

The same in English 91 

To Mrs Throckmorton 92 

Inscription for a Slone erected at the sow- 
ing of a Grove of Oaks 93 

Another, for a Stone erected on a similar 

occasion 94 

Hymn for the Sunday School at Olney 95 
On tlie late indecent 1 iberties taken with 

the Remains of Milton 96 

To Mrs. King 98 

Anrcdote of Homer 100 

In Memory of the late J. Thornton, Esq. 101 

The Four Ages 104 

The Jiidgmpnt of the Poets 106 

To Charles Deodati Ill 

On the death of the University Beadle at 

Cambridge . , 115 

On the Death of the Bishop of Winchester 1 17 

To his Tutor, Thomas Young .... 120 

On the Approach of Spring I2b 

To Charles Deodati 130 

Composed in the Author'* Nineteenth Year 134 

Epigrams. — On the Inventor of Guns . . 138 

: To Leonora singing at Rome 139 

To the same ib 



CONTENTS. . XI 

The Cottager ^nd his T.-anrllord .... 140 

To ChristiiiH.QiRvn of Sweden .... 141 

On the Death of a Physician .... ib 

On the Death of the Bishop of Ely . . 144 

Nrvture unimpaired by Time .... 146 

On the Platonick Idea 149 

To his' Father 151 

To Saltfillus, a Roman Poet .... 157 
To riiovanni B -ttista Manso, Marquis of 

Villa 159 

On the Death of Damon 169 

An Ode addressed to Mr. John Rouse 176 

Sormet 181 

Sonetto ib 

Sonnet 182 

Sf>nrtto 133 

Ci.iione . 1S4 

Cinzoue ib 

Sonnet.~To Cliarles Deodati ... 185 

Soiietto ib 

Sonnet - 186 

Sonetto . ib 

Sofin'-t 187 

Soneito 188 

Ep!f;iph on Mrs. M. Hisigins, of Weston ib 

The Retired Cat . . ^ 189 

YarHlevOalv 193 

Tothe'Ni2;htin,a:ale ■ - ^' • • ... 200 
Lines written for insertion in a Collection 
of hTnd-writings Mid signatures made 

by Miss Patty, sister of Hannah More 201 

Epitaph on a Redbreast 202 

Sonnet to W. W'ilberforce, Esq. ... 293 

Epitirani 204 

To Dr. Austin 205 

Sonnet addressed to William Hayley,Esq. 206 

Catharina 207 

An Epitaph 208 

Epitaph ou jFop 209 



Xll CONTENTS. 

Sonnet to George Romney, Esq. . . . 210 
On receiving H lyley's Picture ... ib 
Epitaph on Mr. Chester, of Chichely . ib 
On a Plant of Virgin's bower .... 212 
To my Cousin, Anne Bodham . . . iil3 
Inscription for an hermitage in the Au- 
thor's Garden 214 

To Mrs. Unwin ib 

To John Johnson 215 

To a Young Friend 216 

A Tale 217 

To William Hayley, Esq. . . . . . 221 

Ou a Spaniel called Beau killing a Bird 222 

Beau's Reply 223 

Answer to Stanzas addressed to Lady 

Hesketh ...» 224 

To the Spanish Admiral, Count Gravina 225 

0)1 Flaxman's Penelope ..... 226 

On Receiving Heyne's Virgil ... ib 

To Mary 227 

Montes Glaciales 229 

On the ice Islands 231 

The Cast-Away 234 

Thrax 237 

The Thracian ib 

Mutua Beuevolentia 2 58 

Reciprocal Kindnofs 'z39 

M;!n!ii!e » . . . 241 

AMinuil 242 

iEnitima 245 

An Enigma ib 

Passeres Indigen* 247 

Sparrows seii-domesticated 248 

IV ulli te facias niinis sod'alem .... 249 

Familiarity Dangerous ib 

Ad Rubec'ulam Invitafio 250 

lnvilat;on tothe Red-breast .... 251 

Stradae Philomela 25? 



CONTENTS. Xiii 



Strada's Nightingale 253 

Anus Saecularis 254 

Ode on the Death of a Lady .... 256 

Victoria Forensis 258 

The Cause Won lb 

Bonibyx 259 

The Silk Worm 2t)0 

Innocens Praedatrix 261 

The Innocent Thief 262 

Denneri Anus 263 

Denner's Old Woman 264 

Lacrymae Pictoris ...:.... 265 

The Tears of a Painter 266 

Spe Finis 268 

The Maze ib 

Nemo Miser nisi coraparatus .... 269 

No Sorrow peculiar to the Sufferer . . ib 

Limax 270 

The iSnail ib 

Eques Academicus 271 

The Cantab 272 

The Salad, by Virgil 274 

From the Greek of Julianus 281 

On the same by Palladas ib 

An Epitaph 282 

Anotner ib 

2i53 

ib 

By Callimachus ib 

On Miltiades 284 

On an Infant ib 

By Heraclides ib 

On the Reed 285 

To Health ib 

On ihe Astrologers ' , 280 

On an Old Woman ib 

On Invalids 287 

On Flatterers ib 



Xiv CO^^TENTS. 

Oil the Swallow . ^^^ 

0n late acquiiert Wealth ^^^ 

Oh a true t riend .. 

On a Batii, by Plato '" 

On a Fowler, by Isidorus . .^i. . • ^^^ 

OnNjobe |P 

On a Good Man 2y0 

On a Miser *.^ 

Anotlier 291 

On Female Inconstancy 292 

On the Grasshopper 293 

On rlci-mocratia ' 

From Meuaiider . . - 0^4 

On Pallas Bathing 295 

To Demosthenes • • ., 

On a similar Character 

On an Cgly Fellow ^-^^ 

On a Battered Beauty jj 

On a 'I hief 

On Pedigree ^^^ 

On Envy ^-J^ 

By Philemon ,.„„ 

ByMoschus ^ 

In i^Moratitem arrj^autem Lmnm ... "^Vy 

On one ignorant and arrogant .... | 

Prudens Simplicilas 

Prudent Simplicity ...:••• »° 

Ad Amicum Pauperem -^V' 

To a Friend in Distress !jj 

LexTalionis ' 

Ketaiiition • . • • jf 

De Ortu et Occasu I" 

Sunset and Sunrise ' 

Lepus ii.uWis Amicus ;^"^ 

Avarus et Plutns ^i 

PapiiioetLimax • '^^ 



SKETCH 



LIFE OF COWPER. 



William Cowper, the subject of the 
following brief Memoir, was born at 
Great Berkhampstead, in Hertfordshire, 
■on the fifteenth of November, 1731. 
His father, the Rev. John Cowper, D.D. 
Rector of that place, and one of the chap- 
lains of King George the Second, married 
Anne, daughter of Roger Donne, Esq. of 
Ludham-hall, in the county of Norfolk. 
She died in childbed on the thirteenth of 
November, 1737 ; and he, of a paralytick 
seizure on the tenth of July, 1756. Of 
five sons and two daughters, the issue of 
this marriage, William and John only 
survived their parents : the rest died ii? 
their infancy. 



SH SKETCH OP THt: 

Such was his origin ;--but it must be 
added, that the highest blood of the realm 
flowed in the veins of the modest and un- 
assuming Cowper. It is perhaps alreatly 
known that his grandfather, Spencer 
Cowper, was Chief Justice of the Com- 
mon Pleas, and next brother to William, 
first Earl Cowper, and Lord High Chan- 
cellor of England : but his mother was de- 
scended through the families of Hippes- 
ley of Throughley, in Sussex, and Pellet 
of Boleney, in the same county, from 
the several noble houses of West, Knol- 
lys, Carey, Bullen, Howard, and Mow- 
bray ; and so by four different lines from 
Henry the Third, King of England. Dis- 
tinctions of this nature can shed no addi- 
tional lustre on the memory of Cowper ; 
but genius, however exalted, disdains 
not, while it boasts not, the splendour of 
ancestry; and royalty itself may be flat- 
tered, and perhaps benefited, by discov- 
ering its kindred to such piety, such pu- 
rity, such talents as his. 

The simplicity of the times that wit- 
nessed the childhood of Cowper, assigned 
him his first instruction at a day-school 



lilFE OF COWPER. XIU 

in his native village. The reader may 
recollect an allusion to this circumstance 
in his beautiful Monody on the receipt of 
his mother's Picture, 



" the gard'ner Robin, day by day 

*' Drew me to school along the publick way, 
" Delighted with my bawble coach, and wrapt 
" In scarlet mantle warm and velvet capt." 

On the death of the beloved parent, who 
is so tenderly commemorated in that ex- 
quisite poem, and who just lived to see 
him complete his sixth year, he was pla- 
ced under the care of Dr. Pitman of Mar- 
ket-street, a few miles distant from the 
paternal roof. At this respectable aca- 
demy he remained till he was eight years 
of age, when the alarming appearance of 
specks on both his eyes induced his father 
to send him to the house of a female oculist 
in London. Her attempts, however, to 
relieve him, were unsuccessful, and at 
the expiration of two years he exchanged 
her residence for that of Westminster 
school, where, some time afterwards, a 
remedy was unexpectedly provided for 
him in the small pox, which, as he says 



XIV SKETCH OP THE 

in a letter to Mr. Hayfey, " proved the 
better oculist of the two." What de- 
gree of proficiency as to the rudiments 
of education, he carried with him to this 
venerable establishment, at the head of 
which was Dr. Nichols, does not appear, 
but that he left it in the year 1749, with 
scholastick attainments of the first order, 
is i-eyond a doubt. 

After spending three months with his 
fatherat Berkharastead, he was placed in 
the family of a Mr. Chapman, a solicitor 
in London, with a view to his instruction 
in the practice of the law. To this gen- 
tleman he was engaged by articles for 
three years. The opportunities, howev- 
er, which a residence in the house of his 
legal tutor afforded him, for attaining the 
skill that he was supposed to be in search 
of, w-re so far from attaching him to 
legal studies, tlsat he spent the greater 
part of his time in the house of a near 
relation. This he playfully confesses in 
the following passage of a letter to a 
daughter of that relative, more than thir- 
ty years after the time he describes : " I 
did actually live three years with Mr. 



LIFE OF COWPER. XV 

Chapman, a solicitor, that is to say, I 
slept three years in his house ; but I 
lived, that is to say, I spent my days in 
Southampton-row, as you very well re- 
member. There was I, and the future 
Lord Chancellor, constantly employed 
from morning to night in giggling and 
making giggle, instead of studying the 
law. Oh fie, Cousin ! how could you 
do so ?" The subject of this sprightly 
remonstrance was the Lady Hesketh, who 
so materially contributed to the comfort 
of the dejected Poet in his declining 
years ; and the Chancellor alluded to was 
Lord Thurlow. This trifling anecdote is 
no otherwise worthy of record, than as it 
may serve to shew, that the profession 
which his friends had selected for him, 
had nothing in it congenial with the 
mind of Cowper. 

The three years for which he had been 
consigned to the office of the Solicitor 
being expired, at the age of twenty-one 
he took possession of a set of chambers 
in the Inner Temple. By this step he 
became, or rather ought to have become, 
a regular student of law ; but it soon ap- 
B ^ 



XVI SKETCH OF THE 

peared that the higher pursuits of juriy- 
pnidence were as little capable of fixing 
his alteration, as the elementaiy parts of 
that science had proved. It is not to be 
supposed, indeed, that at this maturer 
age, he continued those habits of idleness 
and dissipation, which already have beeit 
noticed ; but it is certain from a colloquial 
account of hi's early years with which he 
favoured his friend Mr. Hayley, that 
literature, and particularly of a poetical 
kind, was his principal pursuit in the 
Temple. In the cultivation of studies so 
agreeable to his taste, he could not fail 
to associate occasionally with such of his 
Westminster school-fellows as were resi- 
dent in London, and whom he knew to be 
eminent literary characters. The elder 
dohnan, Bonnel Thornton, and Lloyd, 
were especially of this description. With 
these therefore he seems to have con- 
tracted the greatest intimacy, assisting 
the two former in their periodical publi- 
cation. The Connoisseur ; and the latter, 
as Mr. Hayley conjectures, in the works 
wiiich his slender finances obliged him 
to engage in. TJie Buncombes also, father 



LIFE OF COWPER. XVIl 

and son, two amiable scholars of Stocks 
in Hertfordshire, and intimate friends of 
his surviving parent, were among the 
writers of the time, to whose poetical 
productions Cowper contributed. In 
short, the twelve years which he spent in 
the Temple, were, if not entirely devot- 
ed to classical pursuits, yet so much 
engrossed by them as to add little or 
nothing to the slender stock of legal 
knowledge which he had previously ac- 
quired in the house of the Solicitor. 

The prospect of a professional income 
of his own acquiring, under circumstances 
lik« these, being out of the question, 
and his patrimonial resources being near- 
ly exhausted, it occurred to him, towards 
the end of the above-mentioned period, 
that not only was his long cherished wish 
of settling in matrimonial life thus pain- 
fully precluded, but he was even in dan- 
ger of personal want. It is not unlike- 
ly that his friends were aware of the 
probability of such an event, from the 
nniform inattention he had shewn to his 
legal studies ; for in the thirty-first year 
of his age, they procui;cd him a nomiHa- 



XVlll SKETCH OF THE 

tion to the offices of Reading Clerk, and 
Clerk of the Private Committees in the 
House of Lords. But he was by no 
means qualified for discharging the duties 
annexed to either of these employments ; 
nature having assigned him such an ex- 
treme tenderness of spirit, as, to use his 
own powerful expression, made a publick 
exhibition of himself, under any circum- 
stances, " mortal poison" to him. No 
sooner, therefore, had he adverted to the 
consequence of his accepting so conspi- 
cuous an appointment, the splendour of 
which he confesses to have dazzled him 
into a momentary consent, than, it forci- 
bly striking him at the same time that 
such a favourable opportunity for his 
marrying might never occur again, his 
mind became the scat of the most con- 
flicting sensations. These continued and 
increased, for the space of a week, to 
such a painful degree, that, seeing no pos- 
sible way of recovering any measure of 
his former tranquillity, except by resign- 
ing the situation which the kindness of 
his friends had procured him, he most 
eafnestiv entreated that tliev would al- 



LIFE OF COWPER. XIX 

fow him to do so. To this, though with 
great reluctance, they at length consent- 
ed, he having offered to exchange it for a 
much less lucrative indeed, but, as he 
flattered himself, a less irksome office, 
which was also vacant at that time, 
namely, the Clerkship of the Journals la 
the House of Lords. 

The return of something like compo- 
sure to the mind of Cowper was the con- 
sequeiK;e of this arrangement between 
him and his friends. It was a calm, how- 
ever, but of short duration ; for he had 
scarcely been possessed of it three days, 
when an unhappy and untbreseen incident 
Hot only robbed him of this semblance of 
comfort, but involved him in more than 
his former distress. A dispute in parlia- 
ment, in reference to the last mentioned 
appointment, laid him under the formi- 
dable necessity of a personal appearance 
at the bar of the House of Lords, that his 
fitness for the undertaking might be pub- 
lickly acknowledged. The trembling 
apprehension with which the timid and 
exquisitely sensible mind of this amia- 
ble man could not fail to look forward to 



XX SKETCH OF THE 

an event of this sort, rendered every in- 
termediate attempt to prepare himself 
for the examination completely abortive ; 
and the consciousness that it did so ac- 
cumulated his terrours. These had risen, 
in short, to a confusion of mind so incom- 
patible with the integrity of reason, whea 
the eve of the dreaded ceremony actual- 
ly arrived, that his intellectual powers 
sunk under it. He was no longer himself. 
In this distressing situation, it waa 
found necessary, in the month of Hecem- 
ber, 1768, to remove him to St. Alban's; 
from whence, through the skilful and hu- 
mane treatment of Dr. Cotton, under 
whose care he was placed, his friends 
hoped that he would soon return in the 
full enjoyment of his former faculties. 
In the most material part of their wish it 
pleased God to indulge them, his recove- 
ry being happily effected in somewhat less 
than eight months. Instead, however, 
of revisiting the scenes in which his pain- 
ful calamity had first occurred, he re- 
mained with his amiable physician near- 
ly a twelvemonth. after he had pronounc- 



LIFE OP COWPER. XXI 

cd his cure ; and that from motives al- 
together of a devotional kind. 

On this part of the poet's history it 
may be proper to observe, that although, 
if viewed as an originating cause, the sub- 
ject of religion had not the remotest con- 
nexion with his mental calamity ; yet no 
sooner had the disorder assumed the shape 
of hypochondryasis, which it did in a very 
early stage of its progress, than those 
sacred truths which prove an unfailing 
source of the most salutary contempla- 
tion to the undisturbed mind, were, 
through the influence of that distorting 
medium, converted into a vehicle of in- 
tellectual poison. 

A most erroneous and unhappy idea 
has occupied the minds of some persons, 
that those views of Christianity which 
Cowper adopted, and of which, when en- 
joying the intervals of reason, he was so 
bright an ornament, had actually contrib- 
uted to excite the malady with which he 
was aflBlicted. It is capable of the clear- 
est demonstration that nothing was fur- 
ther from the truth. On the contrary, 
all those alleviations of sorrow, those de- 



XXU SKETCH OP THE 

lightful anticipations of heavenly rest, 
these healing consolations to a wounded 
spirit, of which he was permitted to taste, 
at the periods when uninterrupted reasoa 
resumed its sway, were unequivocally to 
be ascribed to the operation of those 
very principles and views of religion, 
which, in the instance before us, have 
been charged with producing so opposite 
an effect. The primary aberrations of his 
mental faculties were wholly to be at* 
tributed to other causes. But the time 
was at hand, when, by the happy inter- 
position of a gracious Providence, lie was 
to be the favoured subject of a double 
emancipation. The captivity of his rea- 
son was about to terminate ; and a bond- 
age, though hitherto unraentioned, yet 
of a much longer standing, was on the 
point of being exchanged for the most 
delightful of all freedom, 

" A liberty unsung 

" By poets, and by senators unprais'dj 

E'en "liberty of heart, * derived from heav'n j 
'• Bought vsrita His blood who gave it to mankind, 
" And seai'd with the same token I" f 

* Ram, viu 21. t The Task, Book V 



LilKE OF COWPER. >.Xm 

To the invalua])le blessing of such a 
change he was as yet a stranger. He had 
been for some time convinced, and that 
on scriptural grounds, how much he stood 
in need of it, from a perception of the 
fetters with which, so long as he was ca- 
pable of enjoying them, the pleasures of 
the world and of sense had bound his 
heart, but, till the moment of his afflic- 
tion, he had remained spiritually a priso- 
ner. The hour was now come when his 
prison-doors were to be unfolded ; when 
*'he that openeth and no man shutteth," 
was to give him a blessed experience of 
what 

" Is liberty :— a flight into his arms 
" Ere yet mortality's fine threads give way. 
" A clear escape from tyrannizing" sin, 
" And full immunity from penal wo I" * 

On the 25th of July, 1764, his brother, 
the Reverend John Cowper, Fellow of 
Bene't College, Cambridge, having been 
informed by Dr. Cotton, tliat his patient 
was greatly amended, came to visit him. 

* The Task, Book V. 
C 



xaiv sketch 01'- the 

The first sight of so dear a relative in the 
enjoyment of licalth and happiness, ac- 
companied as it was with an instantane- 
ous reference to his own very difierent 
]ot, occasioned in the breast of Cowper 
many painful sensations. For a (iew mo- 
ments, the cloud of despondency which 
had been gradually removing, involved 
his mind in his former darkness. Light, 
however, was approaching. His brother 
invited him to walk in tlie garden ; where 
so effectually did he protest to him, that 
the apprehensions he felt were all a delu- 
sion, that he burst into tears, and cried 
out, " if it be a delusion, then am I the 
happiest of beings." During the remain- 
der of the day which he spent with this 
affectionate brother, the truth of the 
above assertion became so incre?isingly 
evident to him, that when he arose the 
next morning, he was perfectly well. 

This, however, was but a part of the 
happiness which the memorable day we 
are now arrived at had in store for the 
interesting and amiable Cowper. Before 
he left the room in which he had break- 
fasted, he observed a Bible lying in the 



LIFE Ot' CO^Vl'ER. XXV 

window-seat. He took it up. Except in 
a sirgle instance, and that two months 
beiore, he had not ventured to open one, 
since the early days ol' his abode at St. 
Aiban's. But the time was now corae 
when he might do it to purpose. The 
prontabJe perusal of that L'ivioe book had 
been provided for in the most effectual 
manner, by the restoration at once of the 
powers of his unders landing, and the su- 
peradded gift of a spiri'ual discernment. 
Under these favourable circumstances, 
he opened the sacred volume at that 
passage of the Epistle to the Fomans 
where the Apostle says, that Jesus Christ 
is " set forth to be a propitiation through 
faith in his blood, to declare bis right- 
eousne -s ibr the remission of sins that are 
past, through the forbearance of God.'* 
To use the expression employed by Cow- 
pcr himself in a wriiten document from 
which this portion of his history is ex- 
tracted, he " received strength to believe 
it;" to see the suitableness of the atone- 
ment of his own necessity, and to embrace 
the gospel with gratitude and joy. 



X\Y1 SKETH OF THE 

That the happiest portion of Cowper's 
life was that on which he liad now en- 
tered, appears partly from his own ac- 
count of the first eighteen months of the 
succeeding period, and partly from the 
testimony of an endeared friend in a let- 
ter to the writer of this brief memoir ; 
a friend, who, during the six or seven 
years that immediately followed, was sel- 
dom removed from him four hours in the 
day. But not to anticipate what remains 
to be offered, the devotional spirit of his 
late skilful physician, and now valuable 
host. Dr. Cotton, was so completely in 
unison with the feelings of Cowper, that 
he did not take his departure from St. 
Alban's till the 17th of June, 1765. Du- 
ring the latter part of his residence there, 
and subsequent to the happy change just 
described, he exljibited a proof of the in- 
teresting and scriptural character of those 
views of religion which he had embraced, 
in the composition of two hymns. These 
hymns he himself styled " specimens" of 
his " first christian thoughts ;" a cir- 
cumstance which will greatly enhance 
their value in the minds of those to whom 



LIFE OP COAVPER. XXVll 

they have been long endeared by their 
own intrinsiek excellence. The subject 
of the first of these hymns is taken from 
Revelation xxi. 5. " Behold I make all 
things new," and begins " How blest thy 
creature is, O God." The second, under 
the title of "Retirement," begins "Far 
from the world, O Lord, I flee." 

Early in the morning of the day above- 
mentioned he set out for Cambridge, on 
his way to Huntingdon, the nearest place 
to his own residence at which his brother 
had been able to secure him an asyhim. 
He adverts with peculiar emphasis to 
the sweet communion with his divine 
Benefactor which, though not alone, he 
enjoyed in silence during the whole of this 
journey ; on the Saturday succeeding 
which he repaired with his brother to his 
destination at Huntingdon. 

No sooner had Mr. John Cowper left 
him, and returned to Cambridge, than, 
to his own words, "find ng himself sur- 
rounded by strangers, in a place with 
which he was utterly unacquainted, his 
spirits began to sink, and he i'elt like a 
traveller in the mif'st of an inhospitable 



XXVlll SKETCH OP THE 

desert, vv ithout a friend to comlbrt or a 
guide to direct him. He walked forth 
towards the close of the day, in this me- 
lancholy frame of mind, and having wan- 
dered a mile from the town, he was ena-^ 
bled to trust in Him who careth for the 
stranger, and to rest assured that wherever 
He might cast his lot, the God of ail con- 
solation would still be near him. 

To the question which the foregoing 
pathetick passage will naturally give rise 
to in every feeling mind, namely, why 
was not Mr. Cowper advised, instead of 
hazarding his tender and cohvalescent 
spirit among the strangers of Huntingdon, 
to recline it on the bosom of his friends 
in London ? It is incumbent on the wri- 
ter to venture a reply. It is presumed, 
therefore, that no inducement to his re- 
turn to them, V. liicli, with a view to their 
mutual satisfaction, his affectionate re- 
latives, and most intimate friends could 
devise, was either omitted on their part. 
or declined without reluctance on his. 
But in the cultivation of the religious 
principle which, with the recovery of his 
reason, he had lately imbibed, and which 



LTPE OP COWPER. XXIX 

ill SO distinguished a manner it had pleas- 
ed God to bless to the re-establishment 
of his peace, he had an interest to provide 
for of a much higher order. This it was 
that inclined him to a lite of seclusion; 
a measure in the adoption of which, 
though, in ordinary cases, he is certainly 
not to be quoted as an example, yet, con- 
sidering the extreme peculiarity of his 
own, it seems equally certain that he is 
not to be censured. There can be no 
doubt indeed, from the following passage 
of his Poem on Retirement, that had his 
mind been the repository of less exqui- 
sitely tender sensibilities, he would have 
returned to his duties in the Inner Tem- 
ple : 

" Truth is not local, God alike pervades 
" And fills the world of traffick and the shades, 
" And maybe fear'd amidst the bu'^icst scenes, 
" Or scorn'd where business never intervenes." 

Of the first two months of his abode in 
Huntingdon, nothing is recorded, except 
that he gradually mixed with a few of its 
inhabitants, and corresponded with some 
of his early friomls. But at the end of 



XXX SKETCH OF THE 

that time, as he was one day coming ont 
of church, after morning prayers, at which 
he appears to have been a constant at- 
tendant, he was accosted by a young gen- 
tleman of engaging manners, who exceed- 
ingly desired to cultivate his acquaintance. 
This pleasing youth, known afterwards 
to the publick as the Reverend VVillian» 
Cawthorne Unwin, Rector of Stock in 
Essex, to whom the author of the Task 
inscribed his Poem of Tirocinium, was so 
intent upon accomplishing the object of 
his wishes, that when he took leave of the. 
interesting stranger, after sharing his walk 
under a row of trees, he had obtained his 
permission to drink tea with him that day. 
This was the origin of the introduction 
of Cowper to the family of the Reverend 
Morley Unwin, consisting of himself, his 
wife, the son already named, and a daugh- 
ter : an event, which, when viewed in con- 
nexion with his remaining years, will 
scarcely yield in importance to any fea- 
ture of his life. Concerning these engag- 
ing persons, whose general habits of life, 
and especially whose piety rendered them 
the very associates that Cowper want- d. 



I^IFE OF CO\VPER. XXXI 

he thus expresses himself in a letter writ- 
ten two months after to one of his earli- 
est and warmest friends;* " JVow I 
know them, I wonder that I liked Hunt- 
ingdon so well before I knew them, and 
am apt to think I should find every place 
disagreeable that had not an Unwin be- 
longing to it." 

The house which Mr. Unwin inhabited 
was a large and convenient dwelling in 
the High-Street, in which he had been in 
the habit of receiving a few domestick 
pupils to prepare them for the Universi- 
ty. At the division of the October Term, 
one of these students being called to 
Cambridge, it was proposed that the soli- 
tary lodging which Cowper occupied, 
should be exchanged for the possession of 
the vacant place. On the 1 1 th of ?^ovem- 
bcr, therefore, in the same year, he com- 
menced his residence in this agreeable 
family. But the calamitous death of 
Mr. Unwin by a fall from his horse, as he 
was going to his church on a Sunday- 
morning, the July twelvemonth follow- 

• Joseph HUl, Esq. 



XXX U SKETCH OF THE 

ing, proved the signal of a further remo- 
val to Cowper, who, by a series of provi- 
dential incidents, was conducted with the 
family of his deceased friend to the town 
of Olney in Buckinghamshire, on the 
14th of October, 1767. The instrument 
whom it pleased God principally to em- 
ploy in bringing about this important 
event, was the Keverend John Newton, 
then Curate of that parish, and afterwards 
Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth in London : 
a most exemplary divine, indefatigable 
in the discharge of his ministerial duties ; 
in which, so far as was consistent with the 
province of a Layman, it became the hap- 
piness of Cowper to strengthen his hands. 
Great was the value which Cowper set 
on the friendship and intercourse which 
for some years he had the privilege of 
enjoying with the estimable author of 
Cardiphonia. This appears by the fol- 
lowing passage in one of his Letters to 
that venerable pastor; "The honour of 
your Preface prefixed to my poems will 
be on my side, for surely to be known as 
the friend of a much favoured minister 
of God's word, is a more illustrious dis- 



LIFE OF COWPER. XXXUl 

tinction in reality than to liave the friend- 
ship of any poet in the world to boast of." 
A correspondent testimony of the estima- 
tion in which our poet was held by his 
friend Mr. Newton is clearly deducible 
from the introductory words of the prece- 
ding sentence ; and is abundantly furnish- 
ed in the Preface itself. 

A very interesting part of the connex- 
ion thus happily established between 
Mr. Cowper and Mr. Newton, was after- 
wards brought to light in the publication 
of the Olney Hymns, which was intended 
as a monument of the endeared and joint 
labours of these exemplary Christians. 
To this collection Mr. Cowper contribu- 
ted sixty-eight compositions. 

From the commencement of his resi- 
dence at Olney till January, 1773, a 
period of live years and a quarter, it does 
not appear that there was any meterial 
interruption either of the health or re- 
ligious comfort of this excellent man. 
His feelings, however, must have receiv- 
ed a severe shock in February 1770, when 
he was twice summoned to Cambridge by 
the illness of his beloved brother, which 



aXXIV sketch of Till:: 

terminated fatally on the ^th of the fol- 
lovving month. Mow far this aiBictire 
event might conduce to such a melan- 
choly catastrophe, it is impossible to 
judge; but certain it is, that at this 
period a renewed attack of his former 
hypochondriacal complaint took place. 
It is remarkable that Ihe prevailing dis- 
tortion of his afflicted imagination became 
then not only inconsistent with the dic- 
tates of right reason, but was entirely at 
variance with every distinguishing cha- 
racteristick of that religion which had so 
long proved the incitement to his useful 
labours, and the source of his mental con- 
solations. Indeed so powerful and so sin- 
gular was the effect produced on his mind 
by the influence of the malady, that while 
for many subsequent years it admitted 
of his exhibiting the most masterly and 
delightful display of poetical, epistolary, 
and conversational ability, on the greatest 
variety of subjects, it constrained him 
from that period, both in his conversation 
and letters, studiously to abstain from 
every allusion of a religious nature. Yet 
no one could doubt that the hand and 



LIFE OP COWPER. XXXV 

heart from which, even under so myste- 
rious a dispensation, such exquisite de- 
scriptions of sacred truth and feeluig 
afterwards proceeded, must have been 
long and faithfully devoted to his God and 
Father. The testimonies of his real pie- 
ty were manifested to others, when least 
apparent to himself. But where it plea- 
sed God to throw a veil over the mental 
and spiritual consistency of this excellent 
and afflicted man, it would ill become us 
rudely to invade the divine prerogative 
by attempting to withdraw it. 

Under the grievous visitation above- 
mentioned, Mrs. Unwin, whom he had 
prefessed to love as a mother, was as a 
guardian angel to this interesting sufferer. 
Day and night she watched over him. 
Inestimable likewise was the friendship 
of Mr. Newton : " Next to the duties of 
my ministry," said that venerable pastor, 
in a letter to the author of this Memoir, 
more than twenty years afterwards, " it 
was the business of my life to attend 
him." 

For more than a twelvemonth subse- 
quent to this attack, Cowper seems to 
D 



XXXVl SKETCH OP THE 

have been totally overwhelmed by the 
vehemence of his disorder. But in March 
1774, he was so far enabled to struggle 
with it, as to seek amusement in the tam- 
ing of his three hares, and in the construc- 
tion of boxes for them to dwell in. From 
mechanical amusements he proceeded to 
epistolary employment, a specimen of 
which addressed to his friend Mr. Unwin, 
who had been some years settled at Stock 
in Essex, in the summer of 1778, shews 
that he had in a great measure recover- 
ed his admirable faculties. 

In 1779, he accompanied Mrs. Unwin 
in a post-chaise to view the gardens of 
Gayhurst ; an excursion of which he in- 
forms her son in a playful letter. 

In the autumn of this year, we find him 
reading the Biography of Johnson, and, 
with the exception of what he terms his 
" unmerciful treatment of Milton," ex- 
pressing himself "well entertained" with 
it. 

One of his earliest amusements, in 
1780, was the composition of the beauti- 
ful fable of " The Nightingale and the 
Glow-worm ;" after which he betook him- 



MFE OP COWPER. XXXVll 

self to the drawing of landscapes ; an 
employment of which he grew passion- 
ately fond, though he had never been in- 
structed in the art. This attachment to 
the pencil was particularly seasonable, 
as in the midst of it he lost his friend Mr. 
Newton, who was called to the charge of 
St. Mary Wooluoth, in London. With a 
provident care, however, for his future 
welfare, this excellent man obtained his 
permission to introduce to him the Rev- 
erend William Bull, of Newport Pagnell, 
who from that time regularly visited him 
once a fortnight : and whom Cowper af- 
terwards described to his friend Vnwin, as 
" a man of letters and of genius, master 
of a tine imagination, or rather not master 
of it ;'* who could be " lively without 
levity, and pensive without dejection.'* 
As the year advanced, Hume's History, 
and the Biographia Britannica engaged 
his attention, though the amusements of 
the garden were his chief resource, and 
had banished drawing altogether. These, 
with the frequent exercise of his episto- 
lary talent, and the occasional produc- 
tion of a minor piece of poetry, in the 



XXXVm SKETCH OF THE 

composition of which the entertainment 
of himself and his friends was his only 
aim, led him to the important month of 
December in this year, when he was to 
sit down with the secret intention of wri- 
ting for the publick : an intention, how- 
ever, which his extreme humility took 
care to couple in his mind with this pro- 
viso, that a bookseller could be found who 
would run the risk of publishing his pro- 
ductions. 

Between that time and March 1781, 
the four first of his larger poems were 
completed ; namely, Table Talk, The 
Progress of Errour, Truth, and Expostu- 
lation. These, together with tli^e small 
pieces coniaiued in the earliest edition of 
that volume, were sent to the press in the 
following May, Mr. Johnson, of St. Paul's 
Churchyard, who had been recommended 
to the Poet by Mr. Newton, having, as he 
informed his friend at Stock, " heroically 
set all peradventures at defiance," as to - 
the expense of printing, "and taken the 
whole cliarge upon himself." 

The operations of the press, however, 
had scarcely commenced, when it was 



LIFE OP COWPER. XXXIX 

Suggested to the author that the season of 
publication being so far elapsed, it would 
be advisable to postpone the appearance 
of his book till the ensuing winter. This 
delay was productive of two advantages ; 
it enabled hira to correct the press him- 
self, and nearly to double the quantity of 
the projected volume ; to which, by the 
24th of June, he had added the poera of 
Hope ; by the 12th of July, that of Cha- 
rity, and by the 19th of October, those of 
Conversation and Retirement. 

Whilst the Poet was occupied in the ex- 
tension of his work there arrived at the 
neighbouring village of Clifton, a lady, who 
was in due time to make a most agreeable 
addition to his society, and to whom the 
publick were afterwards indebted for the 
first suggestion of the Sofa, as they were 
also to Mrs. Unwin for that of the Progress 
of Errour, as a subject for Cowper's muse. 
The writer alludes to Lady Austen, the 
widow of ^'ir Robert Austen, Baronet, 
whose first introduction to the Poet and his 
friends occurred in the summer of 1781 ; a 
memorabie era in the life of Cowper. The 
JimitSj however, of a contracted narra- 



Xl SKETCH OF THE 

tive, such as this professes to be, will only 
allow me here to introduce the brief cha- 
racter of this accomplished lady, which 
Cowper despatched to his friind Unwin, 
in the month of August of this year; 
namely, *' that she had seen much of the 
world, understood it well, had high spirits, 
a lively fancy, and great readiness of con- 
versation." The frequent visits of this 
pleasing associate to her new acquaint- 
ances at Olney, gave rise to that familiar 
epistle in rhyme, which the Poet addres- 
sed to her on her return to London ; it is 
dated December 17, 1781. The last 
month of that year, and the two first of 
the year following, appear to have been 
employed by Cowper in correcting the 
press, in epistolary correspondence, and 
in desultory reading. 

The year 1732 was also an eventful pe- 
riod in the life of the Poet. In March, 
his first volume issued from the press, 
in the summer, Mr. Bull engaged him in 
the translation of Madame Guion ; and 
by means of a small })ortable priuting- 
press, given him ))y l-ady Austen, who 
had returned from London to Clil'ton, he 



LIFE OF COWPER. xli 

became a printer as well as a writer of 
poetry. In October of the same year, 
the pleasant poem of John GiJpin sprang 
up, like a mushroom, in a night, 'i he 
story on which it is founded, having been 
related to him by Lady Austen, in one of 
their evening parties, it was versified in 
bed, and presented to her the next morn- 
ing in the shape of a ballad. Before the 
c»lose of the year Lady Austen was settled 
in the parsonage at Olney. 

The consequence of this latter arrange- 
ment, was a more frequent intercourse 
between the lady and her friends. Mr. 
Unwin indeed is informed, in a letter 
which he received from Mr. Cowper in 
Jajuiary, 1783, that "they passed their 
days alternately at each other's chateau." 
This eventually led to the publication of 
the Task. Lady Austen, as an admirer 
of Milton, was fond of blank verse. She 
wished to engage Cowper in that species 
of composition. For a long time he de- 
clined it. The lady, however, persever- 
ed, till, in June or July of the same y. ar, 
he promised to write if she would furnish 
the subject. " O I" she replied, "you 



xlii 



SKETCH OF THK 



can never be in want of a subject : yott 
can write upon any : — write upon this 
Sofa!'' "The poet," says Mr. Hay ley, 
*' obeyed her command, and from the live- 
ly repartee of familiar conversation arose 
a poem of many thousand verses, unexam- 
pled perhaps both in its origin and excel- 
lence ! A poem of such infinite variety, 
that it seems to include every subject, 
and every style, without any dissonance 
or disorder ; and to have flowed without 
effort from inspired philanthropy, eager 
to impress upon the hearts of all readers 
whatever may lead them most happily to 
the full enjoyment of human life, and to 
iiie liiKil attainment of heaven." 

The progress of this enchanting per- 
ibrinance appears to have been this. 
The first four books and part of the fifth 
were written by the 22d of February, 
17o4; the final verses of the poem in 
September following ; and in the begin- 
ning of October the work was sent to 
the press. Tiie arrangements with the 
iiookseller wel*e entrusted to Mr. Unwin. 
During the period of its production, the 
iveningsof the Pod appear to have been 



JLIFE OF COWPER. xHU 

«iODstant]y devoted to a course of diver- 
sified reading to the ladies. Such as 
Hawkesworth's Voyages, L'Estrange's 
Josephus, Johnson's Prefaces, The Theo- 
logical Miscellany, Beattie's and Blair's 
Lectures, The " Folio of four Pages,'* 
and the Circumnavigations of Cook. This 
may in some measure account for the 
comparatively slow execution of the latter 
part of the work, and indeed of the whole 
with reference to the former volume. 
But the following paf^sage of a letter to 
Mr. Newton, dated October 30, 1784, 
will explain it more fully. " I meniion- 
ed it not sooner," namely, that he was en- 
gaged in the work, " because, almost to 
the last, I was doubtful whether I should 
ever bring it to a conclusion, working of- 
ten in such distress of mind, as while it 
spurred me to the work, at the same time 
threatened to disqualify me for it." 
After it was sent to the press, he added 
the poem of Tirocinium, two hundred 
lines of which were written in 1782, and 
the remainder in October and November 
1784. 



Xfiv SKETCH OF THE 

On the 21st of this month he began his 
translation of Homer, which, together 
with the completion of The Task, proves 
the year 1784 to have been an active 
period in the life of Cowper. A no less 
striking occurrence of that year was the 
termination of his intercourse with Lady 
Austen. For a just statement of that 
sudden event, wh}<?h, while it by no 
means towered the character of either of 
the ladies, exceedingly elevated that of 
Cowper, the reader is referred to the bi- 
ography of Hay ley. 

The year 1785 was marked by the pub- 
lication of the second volume ef his po- 
ems in June or July, containing The 
Task, Tirocinium, The Epistle to Joseph 
Hill, Esq. and The diverting History of 
John Gilpin ; al^^o by the production of 
many excellent letters, among which 
those to his cousin Lady Hesketh, who 
had lately returned from a residence in 
Italy, and renewed her correspondence 
with him on the appearance of his second 
volume, are peculiarly interesting, Witfc 
the exception of a few of his s'maller pie- 
ces, his poetical employment, this year, 
was confined to the translation of Homer . 



L.TFE OP COWPER. xlv 

The same may be said of the succeed- 
ing year, which, however, was distinguish- 
ed by three remarkable occurrences : the 
arrival of Lady Hesketh at Olney in June ; 
Cowper's removal to the Lodge in the 
adjoining village of Weston Underwood, 
in November ; and the death of Mr. L^n- 
win in the same month. To the first of 
these events he thus alludes in a letter 
to Mr. Hill : " My dear cousin's arrival 
here, as it could not fail to do, made us 
happier than we ever were at Ohiey. 
Her great kindness in giving us her com- 
pany is a cordial, that 1 shall feel the 
effect of, not only while she is here, but 
while I live :" — to the second, thus, in a 
letter to the same friend, " I find myself 
here situated exactly to my mind. Wes- 
ton is one of the prettiest villages in 
England, and the walks about it at all 
seasons of the yeair delightful. I know 
that you will rejoice with me in tlje 
change that we have made, and for which 
I am altogether indebted to Lady Hesk- 
eth :" — and to the third, thus, in conclu- 
ding a letter to that lady, " So farewell, 
ray friend Unwin ! The first man for 



S\\i SKETCH OF THE 

whom I conceived a friendship after my 
removal from St. Alban's, and for whoBi 
I cannot but still feel a friendship, though 
I shall see thee with these eyes no more." 
Early in January 1787, he was attack- 
ed with a nervous fever, which obliged 
him to discontinue his poetical efforts till 
the October following. A few days after 
the commencement of this indisposition, 
he received a visit from a stranger, which 
he thus notices in a letter to Lady Hesk- 
e: : "A young gentleman called here 
yesterday, who came six miles out of his 
way to see me. He was on a journey to 
London from Glasgow, having just left 
the University there. He came, I sup- 
pose, partly to satisfy his own curiosity, 
but chiefly, as it seemed, to bring me the 
thanks of some of the Scotch Professors 
for my two volumes. His name is Rose, 
an Ens;!ishman. Your spirits being good, 
you will derive more pleasure from this 
incident than I can at present, therefore 
I send it." This interesting and accom- 
plished character was afterwards of sin- 
gular use to Cowper, during a friendship 
which originated in the above visit, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. xlvil 

which was terminated only by the death 
of the Poet. As an early instance of this 
utility, and that with reference to the 
paramount wants of the mind, he intro- 
duced his new acquaintance to the poetry 
of Burns, with which he was so much 
pleased as to read it twice. It was suc- 
ceeded in the office of relieving his de- 
pressed spirits by the Latin Argenis of 
Barclay ; The Travels of Savary into 
Egypt ; Memoirs du Baron de Tott ; 
Fenn's Original Letters ; The Letters of 
Frederick of Bohemia ; Memoirs d'Henri 
de Lorriaue, Due de Guise ; and The Let- 
ters of his young relative, Spencer Madan, 
to Priestley. In allusion to this interval 
of cessation from the labours of the pen, 
he says in a letter to Mr. Rose, " When I 
cannot walk, I read, and read perhaps 
more than is good for me. But I cannot 
be idle. The only mercy that I show 
myself in this respect is, that I read no- 
thing that requires much closeness of 
application." Conversing, however, with 
men and things, through the medium of 
books, was not his only resource in this 
season of illness. He had an infinitely 
E 



Xlviii SKETCH OF THE 

better medicine of this kind, in the soci- 
ety of his valuable friends at the Hall, 
and the many pleasing acquaintances to 
which their hospitality introduced him. 
Indeed the kindness of 8ir John and Lady 
Throckmorton, always a cordial to the 
spirits of Cowper, from the time he knew 
them, was especially such under his pre- 
sent circumstances. As a proof of its 
happy influence on the mind of the Poet, 
he was enabled in the autumn to resume 
his translation of Homer, which, with the 
renewal of his admirable letters to seve- 
ral friends, and the production of his first 
mortuary verses for the clerk of North- 
ampton, comprised all his literary per- 
formances to the conclusion of the year. 

In 1788, his venerable uncle, Ashley 
Cowper, Esq. the father of Lady Hes- 
keth, died at the age of eighty-seven ; au 
event which he pathetically alludes to in 
several of the letters of this period, and 
the ill effect of which on his spirits was 
happily prevented by the successive vis- 
its at the lodge of the Reverend Matthew 
Powley and his amiable partner, the 
daughter of Mrs. Unwin ; his old friends 



LIFE OF COWPER. xllX 

the IVewtons, Mr. Rose, and Lady Hes- 
keth. 

The re-appearance at the liOdge of the 
two last-mentioned visiters, is recorded 
in his letters of 1789, which was also de- 
voted to Homer and the Muse. 

In January 1790, the writer of this 
sketch, who had hitherto enjoyed no per- 
sonal intercourse with his relative, but 
for whom, ten years after, was reserved 
the melancholy office of closing his eyes, 
introduced himself to the poet as the 
grandson of his mother's brother, the 
Reverend Boger Donne, late rector of Cat- 
field, in Norfolk. His total ignorance of 
what had befallen that branch of his fam- 
ily, during the twenty-seven years of his 
retirement from the world, would of itself 
have secured his attention to a visiter so 
circumstanced, even if his heart had been 
a stranger to the hospitable virtues. But 
as no human bosom was ever more under 
the influence of those blessed qualities 
than Cowper's, the reception which his 
kinsman met with was peculiarly pleas- 
ing. The consequence was a repetition 



I SKETCH OF THE 

of his visit in tiie same year, and indeed 
the passing of the chief of his academical 
recesses at the Lodge, and his clerical 
leisure afterwards, till, by the appoint- 
ment of Providence, he transplanted this 
interesting man with his enfeebled com- 
panion into Norfolk, as will appear in the 
sequel of these pages. 

Perceiving that his new and valuable 
acquaintance dwelt with great pleasure 
on the memory of his mother, the kins- 
man of Cowper, on his return lioinc, was 
especially careful to despatch to him her 
picture, as a present from his cousin, Mrs. 
Bodham. To the arrival of this portrait, 
an original in oils, by Heins, he thus ad- 
verts in a letter to that lady, dated Feb- 
ruary 27, 1790 : " The world could not 
have furnished you with a present so ac- 
ceptable to me, as the picture which you 
have so kindly sent me. I received it 
the night before last, and viewed it with 
a trepidation of nerves and spirits some- 
what akin to what I should have felt had 
the dear original presented herself to my 
embraces. 1 kissed it, and hung it where 
't is the last object that I see at night. 



hlVE OV COVVPER. li 

and of course the first on whicii I open 
my eyes in the morning," The. receipt 
of this picture gave rise to the Monody so 
justly a favourite with the publick, when 
it appeared in the later editions of his 
poems. 

On the 25th of August in this year, he 
completed his translation of the Iliad and 
Odyssey of Homer into blank verse, 
which he had begun on the 21st of No- 
vember, 1784. During .eight months of 
this time he was hindered by indisposi- 
tion, so that he was occupied in the work, 
€»n the whole, five years and one month. 
On the 8th of September, the writer of 
this narrative had the gratification to 
convey it to St. Paul's Church-yard, with 
a view to its consignment to the press ; 
during its continuance in which, the 
Translator gave the work a second reyisal. 
The Iliad was dedicated to his young no- 
ble relative, Earl Cowper ; and the Odys- 
sey to the illustrious lady of whom he 
thus writes to his kinsman of Norfolk, on 
the 26th of November, 1790 : " We had 
a visit on Monday from one of the first 
women in the world ; in poin* o*' chavac*^ 



lii SKETCH OF THE 

ter, I mean, and accomplishments, the 
Dowager Lady Spencer. I may receive, 
perhaps, some honours hereafter, should 
my translation speed according to my 
wishes and the pains I have taken with 
it ; but shall never receive any that I 
shall esteem so higlily. She is indeed 
worthy to whom I should dedicate ; and 
may but my Odyssey prove as worthy of 
her, I shall have nothing to fear from the 
criticks." Lady Hesketh also paid him 
this year her usual visit, which extended 
into the next. 

The year 1791 was marked by the com- 
pletion of the second revisal of his Homer 
on the 4th of March, and by the return 
of the last proof-sheet of that work to the 
publisher on the 12th of June. Also by 
the commencement of his correspondence 
with the poet Kurdis ; the suggestion of 
the Four Ages, Infancy, Youth, Manhood, 
and Old Age, as a subject for his muse, 
by his very pleasing and well-informed 
clerical neighbour, Mr. ^uchanan, of 
Ravenstone ; and the seasonable visit of 
three of his Norfolk relations, Mrs. Balls, 
Miss Johnson, and her brother, in the 



L.IFE OF COWPER. liil 

vacant period between the conclusion ol 
his employment as translator of Homer, 
and the beginning of a new literary en- 
gagement, which he thus announces to Mr. 
Rose on the 14th of September ef this 
year : " A Milton, that is to rival, and, 
if possible, to exceed in splendour Boy- 
dell's Shakespear, is in contemplation, 
and I am in the editor's office, Fuseli is 
the painter. My business will be to se- 
lect notes from others, and to write orig- 
inal notes ; to translate the Latin and 
Italian poems, and to give a correct text." 
He addressed himself to the work with 
diligence, and by the end of the year had 
advanced to the Epitaphium Damonis. 

In the early part of 1792, he had to 
encounter the loss of his agreeable asso- 
ciates at Weston Hall, the death of Sir 
Robert Throckmorton having occasioned 
their removal to a seat in Oxfordshire 5 
an event which he tenderly alludes to in 
concluding a letter to the Poet Hurdis. 
His engagement with Milton, the society 
of Lady Hesketli, and of his friend Rose, 
but more especially the consideration of 
who was to succeed his old neijrhbours 



i.V SKETCH OF -. I >J 

in the hospitable mansion, namely, the 
next brother of the Baronet,* who was 
on the eve of marriage witJi Catharina, 
the favourite of the Poet, supported his 
spirits at this trying period. 

The next remarkable feature in the his- 
tory of Cowper, is the commencement of 
his correspondence with Mr. Hayley. The 
limits of this Narrative will not admit of 
a detail of the singular circumstances 
vrhich gave rise to it, but it was scarce- 
ly entered upon, before, in writing to 
Lady Hesketh, Cowper says of his new 
epistolary acquaintance, " I account him 
the chief acquisition, that my own verse 
has ever procured me." In the fol- 
lowing May, a personal interview took 
place between the two Poets, thus no- 
ticed by Cowper in writing to his kins- 
man of Norfolk : " Mr. Hayley is here on 
a visit. AVe have formed a friendship 
that I trust will last for life." A few 
days after, Mrs. Unwin was struck with 
the palsy, which deprived her of the 

* George Coiirtenay Throckmorton, Esq. now 
"Mr. Couctenay. 



LIFE OF COWPER. Iv 

power of articulation, and the use of her 
right hand and arm. Under the pressure 
of this dornestick affliction, he thus 
writes to Lady Hesketh : " It has hap- 
pened well, that of all men living, the 
man most qualified to assist and com- 
fort me, is here, though till within these 
few days I never saw him. and a few 
weeks since had no expectation that I 
ever should. You have already guessed 
that I mean Hay ley !" 

Early in June, Mr. Hayley left the 
Lodge, having obtained a promise from 
its inhabitants, that if it should please 
God to continue the convalescent symp- 
toms of Mrs. Unwin, which had begun to 
be exhibited, they would visit Eartham 
in the course of the summer. The new 
guest of Cowper was succeeded by the 
writer of this sketch, who, without con- 
sulting the Poet, ventured to introduce 
to him Abbott tiie Painter, one of the 
most successful artists of that period, in 
securing to a portrait the likeness of its 
original. In allusion to the fidelity of 
the copy he was then producing, Cowper 
playfully says iu a letter to Mr. Hayley, 



hi SKETCH OF THE 

Abbott is painting mc so true, 
That (trust me) you would stare, 

And hardly know at the tirst view. 
If I were here, or th.ere. 

In the beginning of August, the party sot 
out on their waj to Earthani, where they 
arrived on the evening of the third day, 
and where the most cordial and ajSiection- 
ate reception that it was possible for 
guests to meet with, awaited them from 
the owner of that elegant villa. This 
had a happy effect upon the spirits of 
Cowper, which had been in some measure 
depressed by the romantick moonlight 
scenery of the Sussex hills, over which he 
had just passed, and whose bold and strik- 
ing outlines so far surpassing any images 
of the kind with which the last thirty 
years had presented him, hurried back his 
recollection to those times when he had 
scarcely known what trouble was. 

In this delightful retreat he remained 
till about the middle of the following 
month, his kind host doing every thing 
that even the purest fraternal friendship 
could dictate for the comfort of the J'opt 
and his infirm companion ; who were both 



LIFE OF COWPER. IvH 

benefited by his benevolent exertions, the 
one considerably in spirits, and the other 
somewhat in health. During the visit of 
Cowper to F.artham, a fine head of him in 
crayons was executed by Romney, who 
joined the par»y, as did also that inge- 
nious novelist and pleasing poetess Char- 
lotte Smith, the " friendly Carwardine"*^ 
of Earl's Colone Priory, and the author 
of" The Village Curate," soon after the 
arrival of the guests from Weston. Their 
society was also enlivened by the endear- 
ing attentions of the amiable and accom- 
plished youth, for w'hose future enjoy- 
ment, after a life of professional labour, 
the scenery of Eartham had been so fond- 
ly embellished by an affectionate parent, 
but to whom Providence allotted an early 
grave, in the very same year and month 
in which the illustrious visiter of his be- 
loved father was consigned to the tomb. 
The literary engagements of Cowper 
while he resided at Eartham, are thus 
noticed by his faithful biographer : "The 
morning hours, that we could bestow upon> 
books, were chiefly devoted to a complete 
revisal and correction of all the trans- 



Iviii SKfclTOH OF THE 

lations which my friend had finished, from 
the Latin and [talian poetry of Milton; and 
we generally amused 'ourselves after din- 
ner in forming together a rapid metrical 
version of Andreini's Adamo. But the 
constant care which the delicate health of 
Mrs. Unwin required, rendered it impossi- 
ble for us to be very assiduous in study." 

The termination of their visit to Mr. 
Hayley being arrived, a journey of four 
days restored the party to the lodge at 
Weston ; but not the Poet to a resump- 
tion of his Miltonick employment. In 
addition to the above-mentioned obstacle, 
the habit of study had so totally left him, 
that instead of beginning his dissertations 
on the Paradise Lost, as he had intended, 
he thus writes to I is kinsman, who had 
returned into Norfolk : " I proceed -ex- 
actly as when you were here — a letter 
now and then before breakfast, and the 
rest of my time all holiday : if holiday it 
may be called, that is spent chiefly in 
moping and musing, and *' forecasting the 
fashion of uncertain evils.^^ 

On the 4th of March, 1793, he says in 
a letter to his friend, the Reverend Wal- 



I.Il-E OF COWPER. lix 

tcr Bagot : " While the winter lasted, 
I was miserable with a fever on my spi- 
rits ; when the spring began to approach, 
I was seized with an infiammation in my 
eyes ; and ever since I have been able 
to use them, have been employed in giv- 
ing more last touches to Homer, who is 
on the point of going to the press again." 
At the request of his worthy Bookseller, 
be added explanatory Notes to his re- 
vision ; in allusion to which he writes in 
May to his friend Rose, *' I breakfast 
every morning on seven or eight pages of 
the Greek commentators. For so much 
am I obliged to read in order to select 
perhaps three or four short notes for the 
readers of my translation.' ' He says to 
Mr. Hayley, in the same month, " I rise 
at six every morning, and fag till near 
eleven, when I breakfast. — 1 cannot 5;pare 
a moment ibr eating in the early part of 
the morning, having no other time fof 
study." The truth is, that his grateful, 
affectionate spirit devoted all the rest of 
the day from breakfast, to the helpless 
state of his afflicted companion ; of whose 
similar attentions to his own necessities, he 
F 



Jx SKETCH OF TFtE 

had had such abundant experience. There 
can be no doubt that an arrangement of 
this sort was highly prejudicial to the 
health of Cowper, and that it hastened 
the approach of the last calamitous attack 
with which this interesting sufferer was 
yet to be visited. For the present, how- 
ever, he was supported under it ; writing 
pleasantly thus to Mr. Hayley in October : 
*' On Tuesday, we expect company — Mr. 
Rose and Lawrence the Painter. Yet once 
more my patience is to be exercised, and 
once more I am made to wish that my 
face had been moveable, to put on and 
take off at pleasure, so as to be portable 
in a band-box, and sent to the artist.'* 

In the following month, Mr. Hayley 
paid his second visit to Weston, where he 
found the writer of this Narrative and 
Mr. Rose. " The latter," says the Biog- 
rapher of Cowper, " came recently from 
the seat of Lord Spenser, in Northamp- 
tonshire, and commissioned by that ac- 
complished nobleman to invite Cowper 
and his guests to Althorpe, where mr 
friend Gibbon was to make a visit of con- 
siderable continuance. All the ffupsts of 



LIFE OF COWPKR. Ixi 

Cowpernow recomnieiifled it to him very 
strongly to venture on this little excur- 
sion, to a house whose master he most 
cordially respected, and whose library 
alone might be regarded as a magnet of 
very powerful attraction to every elegant 
scholar. I wished," continues Mr. Hay- 
ley, "toseeCowper and Gibbon person- 
ally acquainted, because I perfectly knew 
the real benevolence of both ; for widely 
as they might differ on one important 
article, they were both able and worthy 
to appreciate and enjoy the extraordinary 
mental powers of each other. But the 
constitutional shyness of the Poet con- 
spired, with the present infirm state of 
Mrs. Unwin, to prevent their meeting. 
He sent Mr. Rose and me to make his 
apology for declining so honourable an 
invitation." 

In a few days from this time, the guests 
of Cowper left him, and before the end 
of the year he thus writes to his friend 
of Eartham : " It is a great relief to me 
that my Miltonick labours are suspended. 
I am now busied in transcribing the al- 
terations of Ho?ner, having finished the 



ixii SKETCH OF THE 

whole revisal. I must then write a new 
Preface, which done, I sliall endeavour 
immediately to descant on " The Four 
Ages." 

Instead, however, of recording the pro- 
secution of this poem, as the work of the 
N^inningof the follow ng year, it becomes 
^ painful duty of the author of this me- 
moir to exhibit the truly excellent and 
pitiable subject of it as very differently 
employed, and as commencing his descent 
into those depths of affiiclion. from which 
his spirit was only to emerge by departing 
from the earth. Writing to Mr. F.ose in 
January 171*4, he says, " I have just abil- 
ity enough to transcribe, which is all that 
I can do at present : God knows that I 
write at this mom? nt under the pressure 
of sadness not to be described." It was 
a happy circumstance that Lady Hesketh 
liad arrived at ^Veston, a few weeks pre- 
vious to this calamitous attack, the in- 
creasing infirmities of Cowper's aged 
companion, Mrs. IJnwin, having reduced 
her to a state of second childhood. To- 
wards the end of February, the care of 
attending to his afflicted relative was for 



LIFE OP cowPEii. Ixiii 

a short time engaged in by the writer of 
these pages, who had scarcely returned 
to his professional duties, when, in con- 
sequence of an affectionate summons from 
Cowper's valuable neighbour and highly 
respected friend, the Reverend Mr. Great- 
heed of Newport Paguei, Mr. Hayley re- 
paired to the Lodge. During the con- 
tinuance of his visit, which was extended 
to several weeks, all expedients were re- 
sorted to, which the most tender ingenuity 
could devise, to promote the object which 
had given rise to it. But though the 
efforts of this cordial and tried friend to 
restore the Poet to any measure of cheer- 
fulness, were altogether ineffectual, yet, 
as a reward for his humanity, it pleased 
God to refresh his benevolent spirit, at 
this time, by the success of a plan Ibr the 
benefit of Cowper, the idea of which had 
originated with himself. The circum- 
stance alluded to is thus related by the 
Biographer of the Poet : — " It was on the 
23d of April 1794, in one of those melan- 
choly mornings, when his compassionrte 
friend Lady Hesketh and myself were 
watching together over this dejected suf- 



Ixiv SKETCH OF THE 

ferer, that a letter irom Lortl Spencer 
arrived at Weston, to anounce the in- 
tended grant of such a pension from his 
Majesty to Cowper, as would insure an 
honourable competence for the residue of 
his life. This intelligence produced in 
the friends of the Poet very lively emo-- 
tions of delight, yet bleuded with pain 
almost as powerful ; for it was painful in 
no trifling degree, to reflect, that these 
desirable smiles of good fortune could not 
impart even a faint glimmering of joy to 
the dejected invalid. 

'/ His friends, however, had the anima- 
ting hope, that a day would arrive when 
they might see liim receive with a cheer- 
ful and joyous gratitude, this royal re- 
compense for merit universally acknow- 
ledged. They knew that when he recov- 
ered his suspended faculties, he mns: be 
particularly pleased to find himself chiefly 
indebted for his good fortune to the 
active benevolence of that nobleman, 
who, though not personally acquainted 
with Cowper, stood, of all his noble friends, 
the highest in his esteem." — " He Mas 
wnhai)pily disabled," continues his Biog- 



LIFE OP COWPER. IxV 

rapher, " from feeling the favour he re- 
ceived, but an annuity of three hundred 
a year was graciously secured to him, and 
rendered payable to his friend Mr. Rose, 
as the trustee of Cowper." 

Another extract from Mr. Hay ley will 
advance the memoir to the close of the 
Poet's residence in Buckinghamshire. 
" From the time when I left my unhappy 
friend at Weston, in the spring of the 
year 1794, he remained there under the 
tender vigilance of his affectionate rela- 
tion Lady Hesketh, till the latter end of 
July, 1795 : — a long season of the darkest 
depression ! in which the best medical 
advice, and the influence of time, appear- 
ed equally unable to lighten that atfiic- 
tive burthen which pressed incessantly 
on his spirits." 

A few weeks prior to the last men- 
tioned period, the task of superintending 
this interesting sufferer was again shared 
with Lady Hesketh by her former asso- 
ciate from Norfolk ; to whom it forcibly 
occurred, one day, as he reflected on the 
inefficacy of tiie air and scenery of Wes- 
ton in proraotins; the return of health 



Ixvi SKETCH OP THE 

to his revered relation, that perhaps a 
.Summer's residence by the sea-side might 
restore him to the enjoyment of that in- 
vahiable blessing. Lady Hesketh, to 
whom he communicated this idea, being 
of the same opinion, arrangements were 
speedily made for his conducting the two 
venerable invalids from Buckinghamshire 
into Norfolk, whom, after a residence 
there of a few months, he hoped to recon- 
duct to the Lodge in amended health and 
spirits. 

It was a singularly happy circumstance 
that in this projected departure from his 
beloved Weston, neither Cowper, nor 
Mrs. Unwin, nor either of their friends, 
thought of any thing further than a tem- 
porary absence. For had the measure 
been suggested under the idea of a final 
separation from that endeared residence, 
which was eventually found to have been 
the intention of Providence, the anguish 
of Cowper in passing for the last time 
over the threshold of his favourite re- 
tirement, and in taking leave of Lady 
Hesketh for ever, might not only have 
proved fata! to the delicate health of his 
affectionate relative, but have so exten- 



LIFE OF COWPER. IxVU 

ded itself to the breast of his conductor, 
as to have deprived him of the necessary 
fortitude for sustaining so long a journey 
with so helpless a charge. Nothing of 
the kind, however, having entered into 
the calculation of either party, both the 
setting out for Norfolk, on Tuesday the 
28th of July, 1795, and the subsequent 
travelling thither of three days, were un- 
attended with any peculiarly distressing 
circumstances. 

As it was highly important to guard 
against the effect of noise and tumult on 
the shattered nerves of the desponding 
traveller, care was taken that a relay of 
horses should be ready on the skirts of 
the towns of Bedford and Cambridge, by 
which means he passed, through those 
places without stopping. On the eve- 
ning of the first day, the quiet village of 
St. Neots, near Eaton, afforded as con- 
venient a resting-place for the party as 
could have been desired ; and the peace- 
ful moonlight scenery of the spot, as 
Cowper walked with his kinsman up and 
down the church-yard, had so favourable 
an effect on his spirits, that he conversed 



Ixviii SKETCH OF THE 

with him, with much composure, on the 
subject of Thomson's Seasons, and the 
circumstances under which they were 
probably written. 

This gleam of cheerfulness with which 
it pleased God to visit the afflicted Poet, 
at the commencement of his journey, 
though nothing that may be at all com- 
pared with it was ever again exhibited 
in his conversation, is yet a subject of 
grateful remembrance to the writer of 
this sketch : for though it vanished from 
the breast of Cowper, like the dew of the 
morning, it preserved the sunshine of 
hope, in his own mind, as to the final re- 
covery of his revered relative ; and that 
cheering hope never forsook him, till the 
object of his incessant care was sinking 
into the valley of the shadow of death. 

At the close of the second day's jour- 
ney, the Poet and his aged companion 
found in the solitary situation of Barton 
mills a convenient place to rest at ; and 
the third day brought them to North Tud- 
denhara in Norfolk. Here, by the kind- 
ness of the Reverend Leonard Shelford, 
they were comfortably accommodated 



LIFE OF COWPKR. Ixix 

with an untenanted Parsonage House, in 
which they were received by Miss John- 
son and Miss Perowne : the residence of 
their conductor in the market-place of 
East Dereham, being thought unfavour- 
able to the tender spirits of Cowper. 
Of the latter of those ladies, Mr. Hayley 
says, with equal truth and felicity of ex- 
pression, " Miss Perowne is one of those 
excellent beings, whom nature seems to 
have formed expressly for the purpose of 
alleviating the sufferings of the afflicted ; 
tenderly vigilant in providing for the 
wants of sickness, and resolutely firm iu 
administering such relief, as the most in- 
telligent compassion can supply. Cow- 
per speedily observed and felt the invalu- 
able virtues of his new attendant ; and 
during the last years of his life he hon- 
oured her so far, as to prefer her per- 
sonal assistance to that of every individ- 
ual around him." 

As the season of the year was particu- 
larly favpurable for walking, the poet was 
prevailed on by his kinsman, to make fre- 
quent excursions of this sort in the retired 
vicinity of Tnddenham Parsonage ; one 



IXX SKETCH OF THE 

of which he extended to the house of his 
cousin, Mrs. Bodham, at Mattis-hall. 
The sight of his own portrait painted by 
Abbott, in one of the apartments of that 
residence, awakened in his mind a recol- 
lection of the comparatively happy mo- 
ments in which he sat for the picture, 
extorted from him a passionately express- 
ed wish, that similar sensations might 
yet return, 

It being fondly hoped by his kinsman, 
that not only this wish, but many more 
of the same kind, and those most sanguine, 
conceived by himself, might be realized 
by a removal to the sea-side, he conducted 
the two invalid?, on the 19th of August 
1795, to the village of Mundsley on the 
Norfolk coast. They had been there but 
a short time, when his companion per- 
ceived, that there was something inex- 
pressibly soothing to the spirit of Cow- 
per in the monotonous sound of the break- 
ers. This induced him to confine the 
walks of the Poet, whom dejection pre- 
cluded from the exercise of all choice 
whatever, or at least the expression of 
it, almost wholly to the sands, which at 



LIFE OF COWPER. IXXl 

Mundsley are remarkably firm and level ; 
till an incident occurred whi'^h introduced 
them to the inland, but still pleasing 
walks of that vicinity. The circumstance 
alluded to, is stated in the following let- 
ter, which, after a long suspension of 
epistolary employment, the Poet address- 
ed to Mr. Buchanan. " It shews," as 
Mr. Hayley observes, " the severity of 
his depiession, but shews also that faint 
gleams of pleasure could occasionally 
break through the settled darkness of 
melancholy." 

It is introduced with a quotation from 
the Lycidas of Milton. 

" To interpose a little ease, 
Let my frail thoughts dally with false surmise.'* 

"I will forget, for a moment, that to 
whomsoever 1 may address myself, a let- 
ter from me can no otherwise be wel- 
come, than as a curiosity. To you. Sir, 
I address this ; urged to it by extreme 
penury of employment, and the desire I 
feel to learn something of what is doing, 
and has been done at Weston (my beloved 
Weston !) since I left it. 

G 



Ixxii SKETCH OP THE 

" The coldness of these blasts, even is 
the hottest days, has been such, that ad- 
ded to the irritation of the salt spray, 
with which they are always charged, they 
have occasioned me an inflammation ia 
the eye-lids, which threatened a few days 
since to confine me entirely ; but by ab- 
senting myself as much as possible from 
the beach, and guarding my face with an 
umbrella, that inconvenience is in some 
degree abated. IVly chamber commands 
a very near view of the ocean, and the 
ships at high water approach the coast so 
closely, that a man furnished with better 
eyes than mine might, I doubt not, discern 
the sailors from the window. No situa- 
tion, at least when the weather is clear 
and bright, can be pleasanter : which you 
will easily credit, when I add that it im- 
parts something a little resembling plea- 
sure even to me. — Gratify me with news 
from Weston ! If Mr. Gi egson, and your 
neighbours the Courtnays are there, men- 
tion me to them in such terms as you see 
good. Tell me if my poor birds are liv- 
ing ! I never see the herbs I used to give 
tliem without a recollection of them, and 



LIFE OF COWPER. lxxii»- 

sometimes am ready to gather them, for- 
getting that I am not at home. Pardon, 
this intrusion ! 

" Mrs, Unwin continues much as usual." 

Mundslcy, Sept. 5, 1795. 

The hopes of the kinsman of Cowper 
were greatly elevated by the unexpected 
despatch of the above epistle, which he 
hailed as the forerunner of many more, 
each contributing something to the alle- 
viation of his melancholy. With the ex- 
ception, however, of two hereafter men- 
tioned, it was the only letter which the 
overwhelming influence of his disorder 
would suffer him to write in his latter 
years. 

The effect of air and exercise on the de- 
jected Poet being by no means such as his 
friends had hoped, change of scene was re- 
sorted to as the next expedient. About 
six miles to the south of Mundsley, and 
also on the coast, is a village called Hap- 
pisburgh, or Hasboro', which in the days 
of his youth Cowper had visited from Cat- 
tield, the residence of his mother's brother. 



iSXiv SKETCH OF THE 

An excursion therefore to this place was 
projected, and happily accomplished, by- 
sea ; a mode of conveyance which had at 
least novelty to recommend it ; but a gale 
of wind having sprung up, soon after his 
arrival there, the return by water was 
unexpectedly precluded, and he was un- 
der the necessity of effecting it on foot 
through the neighbouring villages. To 
the agreeable surprise of his conductor, 
this very considerable walk was perform- 
ed with scarcely any fatigue to the invalid. 
This incident led to a welcome discove- 
ry ; namely that, shattered as the person 
of Cowper was, and reduced even to a con- 
sumptive thinness, it yet retained a con- 
siderable portion of muscular strength. 
This induced an extension of those daily 
walks in which the vicinity of Mundsley 
was gradually explored. It led likewise 
to a journey of iifty miles in a post-chaise, 
by way of Cromer, Holt, and Fakenham, 
the object of which was to take a view of 
Dunham Lodge, a vacant seat on a high 
ground, in the neighbourhood of hwaJBT- 
ham. Cowper observed of this mansion, 
ivhich was recently built by Edward Par- 



LIFE OP COWPER. IxXV 

ry, Esq. that it was rather too spacious 
for his requirements, but as he did not 
seem unwilling to inhabit it, his compan- 
ion, who conceived it to be a far more eli- 
gible situation for his interesting charge 
than his own house in tlie town of Dere- 
ham, was induced to become the tenant 
of it at a subsequent period. They pro- 
ceeded to the last mentioned place, which 
is about eight miles east of Dunham Lodge, 
the same evening; and the next day, a 
journey of thirty miles through Reepham, 
Aylsham, and North Walsham, returned 
them safe to Mundsley. Here they re- 
mained till the 7th of October, the health, 
if not the spirits of Cowper, being benefit- 
ted by it, though the infirmities of Mrs= 
Unwin continued the same. On that day, 
the party removed to Dereham, and again, 
in the course of the month, to Dunham 
Lodge, which was now become their set- 
tled residence. 

As the season advanced, the amusement 
of walking being rendered impracticable, 
and his spirits being by no means suffi- 
ciently recovered to admit of his resum- 
ing either his pen or his books, the only 

G # 



IXXVi SKETCH OP THE 

resource which was left to the Poet, was 
to listen incessantly to the reading of his 
companion. The kind of books that ap- 
peared most, and indeed solely to attract 
him, were works of fiction ; and so happy 
was the influence of these in rivetting his 
attention, and abstracting him, of course^ 
from the contemplation of his miseres, 
that he discovered a peculiar satisfaction 
when a production of fancy of more than 
ordinary length, was introduced by his 
kinsman. This was no sooner perceived, 
than he was furnished with the voluminous 
pages of Frichardscn, to which he listened 
with the greater interest, as be had been 
personally acqugiinted with that ingenious 
writer.. 

At this time, the tender spirit of Cow- 
per clung exceedingly to those about him, 
and seemed to be haunted with a continual 
draad that they would leave him alone in 
h's solitary mansion. Sunday, therefore, 
was a day of more than ordinary appre- 
hension io him ; as the furthest of his 
kinsman's churclies being fifteen miles 
frojr: i he Lodge, he was necessarily absent 
during the whole of the sabbath. On these 



LIFE OF COWPER. IxXVU 

occasions, it was the constant practice of 
the dejected Poet to listen frequently on 
the steps of the hall-door, for the barking 
of dogs, at a farm-house, which in the 
stillness of the night, though at nearly the 
distance of two miles, invariably announc- 
ed the approach of his companion. 

To remove the inconvenience of these 
lengthened absences, an inquiry was set 
on foot by the attendant of Cowper, for a 
house equally retired with Dunham Lodge, 
but nearer the scene of his ministerial du- 
ties. The search, however, proving fruit- 
less, he ventured to consult his beloved 
charge, as to how far he con id tolerate the 
Dereham residence. To his agreeable 
surprise, he found, that he not only pre- 
ferred it to his present situation, bi;t, if 
the question had been put to him in the 
first instance, would never have wished 
any other. It was agreed, therefore, that 
as the ensuing Sumujer was to be spent at 
Mundsley, they should remain at Duriham 
Lodge, till that period, and return from 
the sea to Dereham. 

In the mean time, the employment of 
reading, ajid, as often as the weather per- 



IxXViii SKETCH OK THE 

raitted, excursions on foot, or in an open 
carriage, amused the sufferer till the com- 
mencement of 1796 ; in the month of April 
of which year, Mrs. TTnwin received a visit 
from her daughter and son-in-law, Mr. and 
Mrs. Povvley. The tender and even filial 
attention which the compassionate invalid 
bad never ceased to exercise towards his 
aged and infirm companion, was now shar- 
ed by her affectionate relatives ; to whom 
it could not but be a gratifying spectacle 
to see their venerable parent so assiduous- 
ly watched over by Cowper, even in his 
darkest periods of depression. The visit 
of these exemplary persons was productive 
also of advantage to their friends, as the 
salutary custom of reading a chapter in 
the Bible to her mother, every morning 
before she rose, was continued by the 
writer of this Memoir, who, as the Poet 
always visited the chamber of his poor old 
friend, tJie moment he had finished his 
breakfast, took care to read the chapter 
at that time. 

It was a pleasing discovery, which the 
companion of Cowper had now made, that 
•immersed as he was in the depth of des*- 



LIFE OF COWPER, Ixxlx 

pondence, all the billows of which had 
gone over his soul, he could yet listen with 
composure to the voice of inspiration, of 
which he had been conceived to be un- 
wiiiing to hear even the name. Being eu^ 
couraged by the result of the above exper- 
iment, the conductor of the devotions of 
this retired family ventured in the course 
of a Yew days, to let the members of it 
meet for prayers in the room where Cow- 
per was, instead of assembling in another 
apariment, as they hitherto had done, un- 
der the influence, as it proved, of a rais- 
concepUon, with regard to his ability to 
9,ttend the service. On the first occur- 
rence of this new arrangement, of which 
no intimation had benn previously given 
him, he was preparing to leave the room, 
but was prevailed on to rpsume his seat, 
by a word of soothing and whispered en- 
treaty. 

The arrival of Wakefield's edition of 
Pope's Homer at Dunham Lodge, in June 
17&6, was productive of happy consequen- 
ces to the invalid, by supplying an occu- 
pation 10 flis harassed liiind, which ab- 
sorbed it still more than that of listening 



ixXX SKETCH OF THE 

to the works before-mentioned. These 
fabrications of fancy, however, were not 
laid aside, but varied with conceptions of 
a much higher order ; even the sublime 
flights of the illustrious Greek, to which 
the attention of his tianslator was again 
awakened, in the following rather singular 
manner. 

It was the custom of the Poet, on leav- 
ing Mrs. Unwin's apartment in the morn- 
ing, to take a few turns by himself in a 
large unfrequented room, which he had to 
pass in his way back to the parlour. His 
companion, therefore, having observed 
that the notes of the ingenious Mr. Wake- 
field were not without a reference to the 
labours of Cowper, took care to place the 
eleven volumes of that Editor's recent 
publication in a conspicuous part of this 
room ; having previously hinted in the 
hearing of his friend, that there was in 
them an occasional comparison of Pope 
with Cowper. To his agreeable surprise, 
he discovered, the next day, that the lat- 
ter had not only found these notes, but 
had corrected his Translation at the sug- 
gestion of some of them. From the mo- 



LIFE OF COWPER. IxXXI 

ment that this reviving interest in his 
version of the Iliad and Odyssey was per- 
ceived, to exist in the breast of Covvper» 
it was vigilantly cherished by the utmost 
efforts of his attendant, till, in the ensu- 
ing August, he had decidedly engaged in a 
revisal of the whole Work, and was daily 
producing almost sixty new lines. 

Much hope had been entertained by 
the friends of Cowper, that this volun- 
tary resumption of poetical employment, 
would have led to his speedy and perfect 
recovery ; but the removal of the family 
in September from Dunham Lodge, which 
they now finally quitted, to their tem- 
porary residence at Munsley, so complete- 
Jy dissipated his habits of attention, that 
a twelvemonth elapsed before he could 
be again prevailed on to return to his re- 
vision. In the mean time the air and 
walks of that favourite village, both ma- 
iine and inland, were fully tried, till to- 
wards the end of October, when no appar- 
ent benefit having been derived to the de- 
jected Poet, by his visit to the coast, the 
invalids and their attendaHts retired to 
Dereham, 



Ixxxii SKETCH OF THE 

Cowper was scarcely settled in this new 
habitation, (in point of seclusion, the re- 
verse of Dunham ? odge,) when his friends 
had the satisfaction to see that the scen- 
ery of a town was by no means distressing 
to his tender spirit. Now, to employ the 
language of his Sussex friend, " the long 
and exemplary life of Mrs. IJnwin was 
drawing towards/a close. The powers of 
nature were gradually exhausted, and on 
the 17th of December, she ended a trou- 
bled existence, distinguished by a sublime 
spirit of piety and friendship, which shone 
through long periods of calamity, and con- 
tinued to glimmer through the distressful 
twilight of her declin ng faculties." The 
precise moment of her departure was so 
tranquil, that it was only marked by the 
cessation of her breath, as the clock was 
striking one in the afternoon. 

Gentle, however, as were the approach- 
es of the last messenger, in the case of 
this eminent servant of God, and little as, 
under the ceaseless pressure of his own 
sufferings he had hitherto appeared to no- 
tice them, they had yet been perceived 
by Cowper ; for, as a faithful servant of 



laFE OF cowPER. Ixxxiii 

his dying friend and bimseit' was opening 
the window ofhis chamber on the morning 
of the day of her decease, he said to h *r, 
in a tone of voice at once plaintive, and 
full of anxiety as to what might be the sit- 
uation of his aged companion, " Sally, is 
there life above stairs ?" 

Froua a dread of the effect of such a 
scene upon his mind, the first object of 
the kinsman of Cowper, who had attended 
him to the bedside of his departing friend, 
about half an hour before her death, was to 
reconduct his pitiable charge to the apart- 
ment below, and instantly to commence 
reading. This expedient so often resort_ 
ed to, with a view to composing the spirit 
of Cowper, and generally speaking with 
much success, was happily efficacious in 
the present instance. For though the 
reader had scarcely advanced a few pages, 
before he was beckoned out of the room 
to be informed of the death of Mrs. Un- 
win, he returned to it some moments af- 
ter, without being questioned as io why 
he had left it. Apprehending from this 
circumstance, and from a rapid observa. 
lion of his countenance, with every turn 



IxXXiv SKETCH OP THE 

the mind of bis beloved relative was per- 
haps in as fit a state for the reception of 
the melancholy tidings, as, under the pres- 
sure of his calamity, it could be, the writ- 
er of this Memoir resolved to reveal them. 
As he was sitting down therefore to the 
book, and turning over the leaves to re- 
sume his reading, he observed to the Poet, 
with as much cheerfulness and tender con- 
cern as he was able to associate in the 
same tone of voice, that his poor old friend 
had breathed her last. 

This intelligence was received by Cow- 
per, though not entirely without emotion, 
yet with such as was compatible with his 
being read to by his kinsman, who had 
soon the satisfaction of seeing his interest- 
ing patient as composed as in the time of 
Mrs. Unwin's life. 

But the favourable issue of two distress- 
ing periods, was still to be provided for ; 
his viewing the corpse ; and its subsequent 
removal for interment. To meet the first 
of these difficulties, it was judged expedi- 
ent, that the kinsman of Cowper should 
attend him to the chamber of his departed 
iVicn 1, in the dusk of the evening, when 



•LIFE OF COWPER. ixXXV 

x-ifily an indistinct view of the tody could 
be obtained ; and to preclude his suspicion 
of the other, the funeral was appointed to 
take place by torch-light. It appeared, 
however, that there was no necessity lor 
the latter precaution, as, after looking at 
the corpse for a few moments, under the 
circumstahces above mentioned, and start- 
ing suddenly away, with a vehement but 
unfinished sentence of passionate sorrow, 
he not only named it no more, but never 
even spoke of Mrs. Unwin. 

The funeral was attended by Mr. and 
Mrs. Powley, who had been summoned 
from Yorkshire within the few last days 
of their parent's life, but had not arrived 
till she had ceased to breathe : also by the 
writer of *his sketch, and some members 
of his family. She was buried on the 23d 
of December, in the north aisle of the 
Chureh of East Dereham. 

The commencement of the year 1797 in 
no respect differed from that of the pre- 
ceding years of his illness, his extreme, 
dejection still continuing, and the only al- 
leviation it was capable of receiving, hC' 
ing still the listening to Works of tictiori. 



IxXXvi SKETCH OF THE 

As the spring advanced, however, he was" 
persuaded to resume his usual walks, a 
measure to which the situation of the 
house at East Dereham happily presented 
no obstacles, as, though it fronted the mar- 
ket-place, which was also the turnpike 
road, it was contiguous to the fields on its 
opposite side. Tiiis was equally conve- 
nient for his airings in an o[)en carriage, 
which, from the happy ejftect of a course 
of ass's milk upon his bodily health, begun 
on the 21 st of June in this year, he was en- 
abled to bear, for a few weeks, before 
breakfast. This was undoubtedly the pe- 
riod of his last deplorable altJiction when 
the person of Cowper made the nearest 
approaches to tlie appearance it had ex- 
hibited before his illnoss. His counte- 
nance, from having been extremely thin, 
and of a yeilowisji hue, liad recovered 
much of its former fulness and ruddy com- 
plexion ; his limbs were also less emaciat- 
ed, and his posture more erect : but the 
oppression on his spirits remained the 
same. Under these circumstances, it was 
thought advisable to omit the v sit to 
Mundsley this year, and to take the ut- 



LIFE OP COWPER. IxXXViu 

jjjost advantage of the rides about Dere- 
ham. 

With such recreations, and the never- 
failing one of reading, the Summer of 1797 
was brought to a close ; when, dreading 
the eflect of the cessation of bodily exer- 
cise upon the mind of C^ wper, during a 
long win^^er, his kinsman resolved, if it 
were possible, to re-instate him in the re- 
Tisal of his Homer. One morning, there- 
fore, after breakfast, in the monih of Sep- 
tember, he placed the Commentators on 
the table, one by one ; namely, Vilioisson, 
Barnes, and Clarke, opening them all, 
together with the Poet's translation, at the 
place where he had left off' a twelvemonth 
before, but talking with him, as !te paced 
the room, upon a very diff'eren; subject, 
namely, the impossibility of the th ngs 
befalling him which his imagination had 
represented ; when, as his companion had 
wished, he said to him, " And are you ure 
that I shall be here till the book you are 
reading is finished ?" "Quite sure," re- 
plied his kinsman. " and that you will al- 
^o be here to complete the rerisal of your 
Homer," pointing to the books, "ifyoft 



IxXXViii SKETCH OP THE> 

will resume it to day." As he repoatcd 
these wor<i? he left the room, rejoicing iu 
the wel! known token of their having sunk 
into the poet's mind, namely,- his sealing 
himself on the sofa, taking np one of the 
books, and saying in a k;w and plaintive 
voice, " I may as well do this, for 1 can do 
nothing else." 

It was a subject of much gratitude to 
the frii'nds of this antiable and most inter- 
esting sufferer, that a morciful Providence 
should again appoint him the enjploy- 
ment alluded to, as, more than any thing 
else, it diverted liis mind from a contem- 
plation of its miseries, and seemed to ex- 
tend his breaihing, which was at other 
times short, to a depth of respiration 
more compatible with ease. They had 
the happine<;s to see him perfectly settled 
to the work, and persevering iu it, feeble 
and dejected as he was, till he brought it 
to a prosperous close. 

In the mean time, the visit to the coast 
was repeated ; not indeed, as in former 
cases, for a continuance there of some 
months, hut with an intention of renewing 
it several times in the same season. This 



LIFE OP COWPER. IXXxix 

sieries of excursions to the marine village 
of Mundsley coraiiienced in the Summer 
of 1 798, and was varied by a return to 
Dereham eight or ten times, after a resi- 
dence of a week by the sea side. On one 
of these ocqasions, he visited the larger of 
the two light houses at Happisburgh ; the 
extensive prospect from which embracing 
a country formerly not unknown to him., 
his companion conceived might be a sub- 
ject of interesting contemplation. Such, 
in some measure, it proved, but tl-e at- 
tention of Cowper seemed more attracted 
by the apparatus of the building, lamps 
and reflectors having been recently sub- 
stituted for a fire of coals, in describing 
the passage of that intricate coast. It 
was hoped that this cliange of place, ac- 
companied also by a diversity of objects, 
might operate happily on the mind of 
Cowper ; and. to a certain extent, it did, 
by producing at times, a mitigation of his 
melancholy. In this, however, there is 
no doubt that Homer had a considerable 
share, as hv was the constant companion 
of the Poet on the coast. The iViiscella- 
ueous Works of Gibbon also, and the Pnr-- 



XC SKETCH OF THE 

suits of Literature, which he permitted 
his kinsman to read to him, contributed to 
the amusement of this period. 

Tvvo occurrences worthy of record, as 
testifying the regard borne to Cowper by 
his former acquaintance, took place this 
year : namely, the visit in July, of the 
Dowager Lady Spencer, for whom he had 
always entertained the most affectionate 
respect, and that of his highly esteemed 
friend. Sir John Throckmorton, in Decem- 
ber. But though the former had come 
many miles out of her way to see him, 
and the latter had taken a journey from 
Lord Petre's expressly for that purpose, 
the pressure of his malady would scarcely 
allow him to speak to either of these 
friends, or to express a sense of their kind 
solicitude. 

On a Friday evening, the eighth of 
March, 1799, he completed the revisal of 
his Homer, and the next morning entered 
upon the new Preface, which, however, 
he concluded on the following day, so that 
his kin^inan beheld him once more with- 
out employment. 



lilFE OF COWPEa. XCl 

But the powers of his astonishing mind 
were yet to be exercised, and that on a 
subject altogether of his own devising. 
For though on the eleventh of March, his 
attendant laid before him the introducto- 
ry fragment of his formerly projected Po- 
em of The Four Ages, he merely correct- 
ed a i'ew lines, adding two or three more, 
and declin ng to proceed, with this re- 
mark, " that it was too great a woi'k for 
him to attempt in his present situation." 

In the same manner, several literary 
projects, though of easier accompiishment, 
which his companion suggested to him at 
supper, were objected to by the Poet, who 
at length replied, that he had just thought 
of six Latin Verses, and if he could com- 
pose any thing, it must be in pursuing that 
composition. 

His desk being opened the next morn- 
ing, and all things duly arranged lor the 
purpose, his kinsman had the satisfaction, 
oD his return to the room, to see a Poem 
entitled Monies Glaciates conmience(!i,2ittd 
that some verses were added to the six 
before mentioned. On his attentively 
considering the Title, it occurred to his 



XCll SKETCH OF THE 

companion that during the residence of 
the Poet at Dunham Lodge, the circum- 
stance which he had begun to versify, had 
been read to him in one of the Norwich 
Papers, though without its appearing to 
engage his notice. At the request of Miss 
Perowne he translated this Poem into 
English verse on the 19th of the same 
month. 

If the friends of Cowper were not a lit- 
tle surprised, that his memory should 
have furnished hijn with a subject for his 
Poetical talent, under circumstances so 
unlikely to favour its exertion, his pro- 
ducing The Cast-away, the next day, which 
was founded on an incident recorded in 
Anson's Voyage, a book which he had not 
looked into, for almost twenty years, as- 
tonished them still more. It was, howev- 
er, the last original Poem produced by the 
pen of Cowper. In August he translated 
it into Latin Verse. 

On the same day that he began and fin- 
ished The Cast-aivay, the Latin Poems of 
his favourite Vincent Bourne, which he 
had appeared not unwilling to enter upon 
next, were laid before him, and he trans- 



LIFE OP COWPER. XCIU 

lated " The Thracian.^* But as his sub- 
sequent productions with their respective 
dates, are duly specified in the Ibllovving 
pages, after observing that the Poet went 
in October with himself and Miss Perowne 
to survey a much more commodious house 
in East Dereham, than the family had 
hitherto occupied there, and to which they 
removed in December, the writer of this 
Memoir will draw it to a close. 

Cowper had not passed many weeks in 
this new habitation, when the symptoms 
of weakness which he had for some time 
exhibited, assumed a dropsical appear- 
ance in the ankles and feet. To arrest 
the progress of this new malady, a Physi- 
cian was called in, on the 31st of January, 
1800, by the aid of whose prescriptions, 
which he was with difficulty persuaded to 
follow, and the daily exercise of a post- 
chaise, the disorder was so far checked, as 
not to occasion any further alarm. 

Towards the end of January, his atten- 
tion had been recalled to Homer, by a re- 
quest from his friend of Sussex, who wish- 
ed him to new-model a passage in his 
Translation of The Iliad, where mention 



XCIV SKETCH OF TPIE 

is made of the very ancient Sculpture in 
which Daedahis had represented the Cre- 
tan dance for Ariadne. " On the thirty- 
first of January," says Mr. Hayley, " I re- 
ceived from him his improved version of 
the lines in question written in a firm and 
delicate hand. The sight of such writing, 
from my long silent friend, inspired me 
with a lively, but too sanguine hope, that 
I might see him once more restored. Alas ! 
the verses which 1 surveyed as a delight- 
ful omen of future Letters from a corres- 
pondent so inexpressibly dear to me, 
proved the last effort of his pen." 

By the 22d of February his weakness 
had increased to such a degree, as to be 
incompatible with the molion of a car- 
riage, which was therefore discontinued 
from that day. 

He had now ceased to come down stairs, 
though he was still able, after breakfasting 
IB bed, to adjourn to a second room above, 
and to remain there till the evening. 

Beibre the end of March, he was oblig- 
ed to forego even the trifling exercise con- 
nected with this change of apartments, 
and to conJine himself altogether to his 



LIFE OF COWPER. XCV 

bed-room ; in which, however, he sat up 
to every meal except hreaki'ast. 

About this time he was visited by his 
friend Mr. Rose, whose arrival at the lodge 
at Weston, he had so often welcomed with 
the sincerest delight, but whose approach 
he now witnessed with scarcely any per_ 
ceivable pleasure. His departure, how- 
ever, on the eth of April, excited evident 
feelings of regret in Cowper. 

The humane example exhibited by Mr. 
Hose, in this aflectionate visit to the house 
of a departing friend, would have been 
speedily followed by Mr. Hay ley and La- 
dy Hesketh, had not the foriiier been pre- 
vented by the impending death of a darling 
child, and the latter by a state of health 
too inurm to warrant so long a journey^ 
and into which she had fallen soon after 
the departure of Cowper from Weston, in 
consequence of her protracted and paini'ul 
confinement with her revered r^laiive, 
during the early stage.of his calamitous 
depression. 

On the 19th of April the weakness of 
this truly pitiable suflcrer had so much 
increased, that his kinsman apprehended 



XCVl SKETCH OF THE 

liis death to be near. Adverting, there- 
fore, to the affliction, a^ well of body as of 
mind, which his beloved inmate was then 
enduring, he ventured to speak of his ap- 
proaching dissolution as the signal of his 
deliverance from both these miseries. — 
After a pause of a few moments, which 
was less interrupted by the objections of 
his despondins relative than he had dared 
to hope, he proceeded to an observation 
more consolatory still ; namely, that in 
the world to which he was hastening, a 
merciful Redeemer had prepared un- 
speakable happiness for all his children — 
and therefore for him. To the first part 
of this sentence he had listened with com- 
posure, but the concluding words were no 
sooner uttered, than his passionately ex- 
pressed entreaties that his companion 
would desist from any further observa- 
tions of a similar kind, clearly proved, 
that though it was on the eve of being in- 
vested with angelick light, the darkness 
of delusion still veiled his spirit. 

The clerical duties of his attendant oc- 
casioned his absence during the greater 
part of Sunday the 20th ; but he learnt 



LIFE OB^ COVVPER. XCvU 

on his return that he had in some measure 
revived. He was, however, in bed, and 
asleep ; which induced his kinsman to re- 
main in the room, and watch by him* 
Whilst engaged in this melancholy office* 
and endeavouring to reconcile his mind to 
the loss of so dear a friend, by considering 
the gain which that friend would experi- 
ence, his reflections were suddenly inter- 
rupted, by the unusual and singularly va- 
ried tone of his breathing, which had a 
striking resemblance to the confused notes 
of an organ. Inexperienced as he then 
was in the diversified approaches of the 
last messenger, he conceived it to be the 
sound of his immediate summons, and after 
listening to it for several minutes, he arose 
from the foot of the bed on which he was 
sitting, to take a nearer, and a last view 
of his departing relative, commending his 
soul in silence, to that gracious Saviour, 
whom in the fulness of mental health he 
had delighted to honour. As he put asidft 
the curtain, he opened his eyes ; but clos- 
ed them without speaking, and breathed 
a^ usual. 



XCVUl SKETCH OP THE 

In the early part of Monday the 21st, 
and indeed till toward the hour of dinner, 
he appeared to be dying, but he so far re- 
covered as to be able to partake slightly of 
that meal. 

The near approach of his dissolution be- 
came more and more observable in every 
succeeding hour of Tuesday and Wednes- 
day. 

On Thursday the vreakness was not at 
all diminished ; but he sat up as usual ^br 
a short time in the evening. 

In the course of the night, when he ap- 
peared to be exceedingly exhausted, some 
refreshment was presented to him by Miss 
Perowne. From a persuasion, however* 
that nothing could meliorate his feelings, 
though without any apparent impression 
that the hand of death was already upon 
him, he rejected the cordial with these 
words, the very last that he was heard to 
utter, " What can it signify ?" 

At five in the morning of Friday the 
25th, a deadly change in his features was 
observed to take place. He remain id in 
an insensible state from that time till 
about five minutes before five in the after- 



LIFE OP COWPER. XCIX 

noon, when he ceased to breathe. And 
in so mild and gentle a manner did his 
spirit take its flight, that though the wri- 
ter of this Memoir, his medical attendant 
Mr. Woods, and three other persons, were 
standing at the foot and side of the bed, 
with their eyes fixed upon his dying coun- 
tenance, the precise moment of his depar- 
ture was unobserved by any. 

From this mournful period, till the fea- 
tures of his deceased friend were closed 
from his view, the expression which the 
kinsman of Cowper observed in them, and 
which he was affectionately delighted to 
suppose an index of the last thoughts and 
enjoyments of his soul in its gradual escape 
from the depths of despondence, was that 
of calmness and composure, mingled, as it 
were, with holy surprise. 

He was buried in St. Edmund's Chapel, 
In the Church of East Dereham, on Satur- 
day the 2d of May. Over his grave a 
Monument is erected, bearing the follow- 
ing inscription, from the pen of Mr. Hay- 
lev. • 



LIFE OF COWPER. 

In Memory 
OF WILLIAM COWPER, ESQ. 

Born in Herefordshire, 1731. 
Buried iu this Church 1800. 

Ye, who with warmth the publick triumph feel 
Of talents, dignified by sacred zeal, 
Here, to devotion's bai^d devoutly just, 
. Pay your fond tribute due to Cowper's dust ! 
England, exulting in his spotless fam«, 
Ranks with her dearest sons his fav'rite name :' 
Sense, fancy, wit suffice not all to raise 
So clear a title to affection's praise : 
His highest honours to the lieart belong ; 
His virtues form'd the raagick of bis song." 



POEMS. 

VBRSES WRITTEN AT BATH, 

ON FINDING THE HEEL OF A SHOE, 

IN 1748. 

Jr ORTUNE ! I thank thee : gentle Goddess ! thanks ! 

Not that my Muse, tho' bashful, shall deny, 

She would have thank'd thee rather, hadst thou cast 

A treasure in her way j for neither meed 

Of early breakfast, to dispel the fumes, 

And bowel-racking pains of emptiness. 

Nor noontide feast, nor ev'ning's cool repast, 

Hopes she from this — presumptuous, tho', perhaps, 

The cobbler, leather-carving artist ! might. 

Nathless she thanks thee, and accepts thy boon, 

Whatever 5 not as erst the fabled cock, 

Vain glorious fool ! unknowing what he found,' 

Spurn'd the rich gem, thou gav'st him. Wherefore, 

ah! 
Why not on me that favour, (worthier sure !) 
ConferrM'st thou, Goddess ! Thou art blind, thou 

say'st : 
, Enough !— thy blindness shall etxcuse the deed. 
1 



Nor does my Muse no benefit exhale 
From this thy scant indulgence ! — even here, 
Hints, worthy sage philosophy, are found j 
Illustrious hints, to moralise my song ! 
This pond'rous heel of perforated hide 
Compact, with pegs indented, many a row, 
Haply (for such its massy form bespeaks,) 
The weighty tread of some rude pe.i«ant clown 
Upbore : on this supported oft, he stretch'd, 
With uncouth strides, along the furrow'd glebe, 
Flatt'ning the stubborn clod, till cruel timQ 
(What will not cruel time,) on a wry step, 
Sever'd the strict cohesion ; when, alas ! 
He, who could erst, with even, equal pace, 
Pursue his destin'd way with symmetry, 
And some proportion form'd, now, on one side, 
Curtail'd and maimM, the sport of vagrant boys, 
Cursing his frail supporter, treacherous prop ! 
With toilsome steps, and difficult, moves on : 
Thus fares it oft with other than the feet 
Of humble villager — the statesman thus, 
Up the steep road, where proud ambition leads, 
Aspiring, first uninterrupted winds 
His prosp'rous way ; nor fears miscarriage foul, 
While policy prevails, and friends prove true : 
But that support soon falling, by him left, 
On whom he most depended, basely left, 
Betray'd, deserted ; from his airy height 
Head-long he falls ; and thro' the rest of life, 
Drags the dull lijad of disappointment on. 



STANZAS 

SELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL ODE ON THE 
FIRST PUBLICATION ,OF 

SIR CHARLES GRANDISON, 

IN 1753. 

To rescue from the tyrant's sword 

Th' oppress'd ; — unseen and unimplor'd, 

To cheer the face of wo j 
From lawless insult to defend 
An orphan's right — a fallen friend, 

And a forgiven foe ; 

These, these distinguish from the crowd, 
And these alone, the great and good, 

The guardians of mankind ; 
Whose bosoms with these virtues heave, 
O, with what matchless speed, they leave 

The multitude behind ! 

Then ask ye, from what cause on earth 
Virtues like these derive their birth, 

Deriv'd from Heaven alone, 
Full on that favour'd breast tliey shine, 
Where faith and resignation join 

To call the blessing down. 



Such is that heart : — but while the Muse 
Thy tlieme, O Richardson, pursues, 

Her feeble spirits faint : 
She cannot reach, and would not wrong. 
That subject for an angel's song. 

The hero, and the saint ! 



AN EPISTLB 

TO ROBERT LLOYD, ESQ. 

1754. 

Tis not that I design to rob 

Thee of thy birth-right, gentle Bob, 

For thou art born sole heir, and single;, 

Of dear Mat Prior's easy jingle ; 

Nor that I mean, while thus I knit 

My thread-bare sentiments together, 

To show my genius, or my wit. 

When God and you know, I have neither j 

Or such, as might be better shown 

By letting poetry alone. 

'Tis not with either of these views, 

That I presum'd t' address the Muse : 

But to divert a fierce banditti, 

(Sworn foes to ev'ry thing that's witty !) 

That, with a black, infernal train, 

Make cruel inroads in my brain. 



And daily threaten to drive thence 
My little garrison of sense : 
The fierce banditti, which 1 mean, 
Are gloomy thoughts, led ou by Spleen. 
Then there's another reason yet, 
Which is, that I may fairly quit 
The debt, which justly became due 
Tlie moment when I heard from you : 
And you might grumble, crony mine, 
If paid in any other coin ; 
Since twenty sheets of lead, God knows, 
(I would say twenty sheets of prose,) 
Can ne'er be deem'd worth half so much 
As one of gold, and your's was such. 
Thus, the preliminaries settled, 
1 fairly find myself pitch-kettled :* 
And cannot see, tho' few see better, 
How I shall hammer out a letter. 

First, for a thought — since all agree — 
A thought — I have it — let me see — 
'Tis gone again — plague on't ! I thought 
I had it — but I have it not. 
Dame Gurton thus, and Hodge her son, 
That useful thing, her needle, gone ! 
Rake well the sinders : — sweep the floor, 
And sift the dust behind the door j 

, * Pitch-kettled, a favourite phrase at the time when 
this Epistle was written, expressive of being puzzled, or 
what in the SpectatOT's time would have been called 

bamboozled. 

I # 



6 



"While eager Hodge beholds the prize 

In old grimalkin's glaring eyes ; 

And gammer finds it on her knees 

In ever>' shining straw she sees. 

This simile were apt enough ; 

But I've another, critick proof ! 

The virtuoso thus, at noon, 

BroiHng beneath a July sun, 

The gilded butterfly pursues, 

O'er hedge and ditch, thro' gaps and mews : 

And after many a vain essay, 

To captivate the tempting prey, 

Gives him at length the lucky pat, 

And has him safe beneath his hat : 

Then lifts it gently from the ground ; 

But ah ! 'tis lost as soon as found ; 

Culprit his liberty regains ; 

Flits out of sight, and mocks his pains. 

The sense was dark ; 'twas therefore fit 

With simile t' illustrate it ; 

But as too much obscures the sight, 

As often as too little light, ^ 

We have our similes cut short, 

For matters of more grave import. 

That Matthew's numbers run with easfe 

Each man of common sense agrees ; 

All men of common sense allow, 

That Robert's lines are easy too : 

Where then the prePrence shall we plact. 

Or how do justice in this ease ? 



Matthe'w (says fame) with endless pains, 

Smooth'd and refin'd the meanest strains ; 

iVor sufFer'd one ill-chosen rhyme 

T' escape him at the idlest timej 

And thus o'er all a lustre cast, 

That, while the language lives, shall last, 

An't please your ladyship (quoth I,) 

For 'tis my business to reply ; 

Sure so much labour, so much toil, 

Bespeak at least a stubborn soil : 

Theirs be the laurel-wreatli decreed, 

Who both write well, and write full speed i 

Who throw their Helicon about 

As freely as a conduit spout ! 

Friend Robert, thus like chien scavant^ 

Lets fall a poem en passant, 

Nor needs his genuine ore refine ! 

'Tis ready polish'd from the rarnp. 



THE FIFTH SATIRE 



FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 

[Printed in Duncombe's Horace.} 

1759. 

A hwnourous Description of the Author'^s Journey 
from Rome to Brundusium. 

'TwAS a long journey lay before us, 
When I, and honest Heliodorus, 
Who far in point of rhetorick 
Surpasses ev'ry living Greek, 
Eacii leaving our respective home 
Together sallied forth from Rome. 

First at Aricia we alight, 
And there refresh, and pass the nighty 
Our entertainment rather coarse 
Than sumptuous, but I've met with wors^. 
Thence o'er the causeway soft and fair 
To Appiiforura we repair. 
But as this road is well supplied 
(Temptation strong!) on either side 
With inns commodious, snug, and warm, 
We split tlie journey, and perform 



9 



In two days fime what's often done 
By brisker travellers in one. 
Here, rather choosing not to sup 
Than with bad water mix my cup, 
After a warm debate in spite 
Of a provoking appetite, 
I sturdily resolv'd at last 
To balk it, and pronounce a fast, 
And in a moody humour wait, 
While my less dainty comrades bait. 

Now o'er the spangled hemisphere 
DifFus'd the starry train appear, 
When there arose a desp'rate brawl j 
The slaves and bargemen, one and all, 
Rending their throats (have mercy on us) 
As if they were resolv'd to stun us. 
'' Steer the barge this way to the shore j 
I tell you we'll admit no morej 
Plague ! will you never be content!^'* 
Thus a whole hour at least is spent, 
While they receive the several fares, 
And kick the mule into his gears. 
Happy, these d:5culties past. 
Could we have fall'n asleep at last ! 
But, what with humming, croaking, biting. 
Gnats, frogs, and all their plagues uniting, 
These tuneful natives of the lake 
Conspir'd to keep us broad awake. 
Besides, to make the concert full, 
Two maudlin wights, exceeding dullj 



10 



The bargeman and a psssengcr, 
Each in hie turn, essay'd an air 
In honour of bis absent fair. 
At length the passenger, opprest 
With wine, left off, and snor'd the rest. 
Tl»e weary bargeman too gave o'er, 
And hearing his companion snore, 
Seiz'd the occasion, fbc'd the barge, 
Turn'd out his mule to graze at large, 
And slept forgetful of his charge. 
And now the sun o'er eastern hill, 
Discover'd that our barge stood still ; 
When one, whose anger vex'd hira sore, 
With malice fraught, leaps quick on shore j 
Plucks up a stake, with many a thwack 
Assails the mule and driver's back. 

Then slowly moving on with pain, 
At ten Feronia's stream we gain, 
And in hei^pure and glassy wave 
Our hands and faces gladly lave. 
Climbing three miles, fair^Anxur's height 
We reach, witli stony quarries white. 
While here, as was agreed, we wait, 
Till, charg'd witli business of the state, 
Maecenas and Cocceius come, 
The messengers of peace from Rome. 
My eyes, by wat'ry humours blear 
And sore, I with black balsam smear. 
At length they join us, and with them 
0ur worthy friend Fonteius came ; 



11 

A man of sucli complete desert, 
Antony lov'd him at his heart. 
At Fundi we refus'd to bait, 
And laugh'd at vain Aufidius' state, 
A prsetor now, a scribe before, 
The purple-border'd robe he wore. 
His slave the smoking censer bore. 
Tir'd, at Mursena^s we repose, 
At Formia sup at Capito's. 

With smiles the rising morn we greet, 
At Sinuessa pleas'd to meet 
With Plotius, Varius, and the bard, 
Whom INIantua first with wonder heard. 
The woild no purer spirits knows ; 
For none my heart more warmly glows. 
O ! what embraces we bestow'd, 
And with what joy our breasts o'erflow'd ! 
Sure, while my sense is sound and clear, 
Long as I live, I shall prefer 
A gay, good natur'd, easy friend, 
To every blessing Heav'n can send. 
At a small village the next night 
Near the Vulturnus we alight ; 
Where, as employ'd on state affairs, 
We were supplied by the purveyors 
Frankly at once, and without hire. 
With food for man and horse, and fire. 
Capua next day betimes we reach. 
Where Virgil and myself, who eacli 



J2 



Labour'd with different maladies, 

His such a stomach, mine such eye?, 

As would not bear strong exercise, 

In drowsy mood to sleep resort ; 

Maecenas to the tennis-court. 

Next at Cocceius' farm we're treated, 

Above the Caudian tavern seated j 

His kind and hospitable board 

With choice of wholesome food was stor'S. 

Now, O ye nine, inspire my lays ! 
To nobler themes my fancy raise ! 
Two combatants, who scorn to yielA 
The noisy, tongue-disputed field, 
Sarraentus and Cicirrus, claim 
A poet's tribute to their fame ; 
Cicirrus of true Osciau breed, 
Sarmentus , who was never freed, 
But ran away. We don't defame him ; 
His lady lives, and still may claim hira. 
Thus dignified, in harder fray 
These champions their keen wit display, 
And first Sarmentus led the way. 
" Thy locks, (quoth he) so rough and coarse, 
Look like the mane of some wild horse.'* 
We laugh : Cicirrus undismay'd — 
"Have at you !" — cries, and shakes his head. 
" 'Tis well (Sarmentus says) you've lost 
That horn your forehead once could boast ; 
Since, maim'd and mangled as you are, 
You seeiti to butt." A hideous scar 



13 



Jinprov'd ('tis true) with double grace 

The native horrours of his face. 

Well. After much jocosely said 

Of his grim front, so fi'ry red, 

(For carbuncles had blotch'd it o'er, 

As usual on Campania's shore) 

" Give us, (he cried) since you're so big, 

A sample of the Cyclops' jig ! 

Your shanks methinks no buskins ask, 

Jfor does your phiz require a mask." 

To this Cicirrus. " In return 

Of you, Sir, now I fain would learn, 

When 'twas, no longer deem'd a slave, 

Your chains you to the Lares gave. 

For tho' a scriv'ner's right you claim, 

Your lady's title is the same. 

But what could make you run away, 

Since, pigmy as you are, each day 

A single pound of bread would quite 

O'erpow'r your puny appetite p" 

Thus jok'd the champions, while we laugh'd, 

And many a cheerful bumper quafif*d. 

To Beneventum next we steer ; 
Where our good host by over care 
In roasting thrushes lean as mice 
Had almost fall'n a sacrifice. 
The kitchen soon was all on fire, 
And to the roof the flames aspire. 
There might you see each man and master 
Strivnig, amidst this sad disaster, 



14 

To save the supper. Then they came- 

With speed enough to quencli the flame. 

Prom hence we first at distance see 

Th' Apulian hills, weli known to me, 

Parch'd by the sultry western blast ; 

And which we never should have past, 

Had not Trivicius by the way 

ReceivM us at the close of day. 

But each was forc'd at ent'ring here 

To pay the tribute of a tear, 

For more of smoke than fire was seen — 

The hearth was pil'd with logs so green . 

From hence in chaises we were carried 

Miles twenty- four, and gladly tarried 

At a small town, whose name my verse 

(So barb'rous is it) can't rehearse. 

Know it you may by many a sign, 

Water is dearer far than wine. 

Their bread is deemed such dainty fare. 

That ev'ry prudent traveller 

His wallet loads with many a crust 

For at Canuslom you might just 

As well attempt to gnaw a stone 

As think to get a morsel down ; 

That too with scanty streams is fed; 

Its founder was brave Dioraed. 

Good Varius (ah, that friends must part V. 

Here left us all with acliing heart. 

At Rubi we arriv'd that day, 

Well jaded by the length of way. 

And sure poor mortals ne'er were wetter -. 

PJext, iay b» weat-her couW be better ; 



15 

Ko roads so bid ; we scarce could crawl 

Along- to fishy Barium's wall. 

Til' Egnatians next, who, by the rules 

Of common sense are knaves or fools, 

Made all our sides with laughter heave. 

Since we with them must needs believe, 

Tliat incense in their temples burns, 

And without fire to ashes turns. 

To circumcision's bigots tell 

Such tales ! for me, I know full well, 

That in high Heav'n, unmov'd by care, 

The Gods eternal quiet share : 

Nor can I deem their spleen the cause, 

Why fickle nature breaks her laws. 

Brundusium last we reach : and there 

Stop short the nomge and travetter. 



IG 



THE NINTH SATIRE 

QF THE 

FIRST BOOK OF HORACE. 

THE DESCRIPTION OF AN IMPERTINENT. 

ADAPTED TO THE PRESENT TIMES, 1759. 

Saunt'ring along the street one day, 
On trifles musing by the way — 
Up steps a free familiar wight. 
(I scarcely knew the man by sight.) 
*' Carlos, (he cried) your hand, my dear ; 
Gad, I rejoice to meet you here ! 
Pray Heav'n I see you well .P" " So, so j 
Ev'n well enough as times now go. 
The same good wishes, Sir, to you.'* 
Finding he still pursued me close — 
*' Sir, you have business I suppose." 
*' My business, Sir, is quickly done, 
'Tis but to make my merit known. 
Sir 1 have read," — " O learned Sir, 
You and your learning I revere." 



17 



Then, sweating with anxiety, 
A.nd sadly longing to get free, 
Gods, how I scaraperM, scuffled for't, 
Ran, halted, ran again, stoppM short, 
Beckon'd my boy, and puU'd liira near, 
And whisper'd nothing in his ear. 

Teiz'd with his loose unjointed chat — 
*' What street is this ? What house is thai P 

Harlow, how I envied thee 
Tiiy unabas'ii'd effrontery, 

Who dar'st a foe with freedom blame, 

And call a coxcomb by his name ! 

W^hen I return'd him answer none, 

Obligingly the ool raa on, 

*' I see you're dismally distress'd, 

Woiild give tlie world to be releas'd. 

But by your leave, Sir, 1 shall still 

Stick to your skirts, do what you will. 

"Pray which way does your journey tend ;♦"' 

" O 'tis a tedious way, my friend. 

Across the Thames, tlie Lord knows where, 

1 would not trouble you so far." 

" Well. I'm at leisure to attend you." 

*' Are you.^ (tiiought 1) the De*il befriend you.'* 

?>^o ass with double panniers rack'd, 

Oppress'd, o'eriaden, broken-back'd, 

E'er look'd a thousandth part so dull 

As I, nor half so like a fool. 

*'Sir, I know little of myself, 

? Proceeds the pert conceited df) 



18 

" If Gray or Mason you will deem 
Than me more worthy your esteem. 
Poems I write by folios 
As fast as other men write prose ; 
Then I can sing so loud, so clear, 
That Beard cannot with me compare. 
In dancing too I all surpass. 
Not Cooke can move with such a grace.' 
Here I made shift with much ado 
To interpose a word or two. — 
" Have you no parents, Sir, no friends, 
Whose welfare on your own depends.'* 
" Parents, relations, say you ? No. 
They're all dispos'd of long ago." — 
*' Happy to be no more perplex'd I 
My fate too threatens, I go next. 
Despatch me. Sir, 'tis now too late, 
Alas ! to struggle with my fate ! 
Well, I'm convinc'd my time is come — 
When young, a gipsy told my doom. 
The beldame shook her palsied head^ 
As she perus'd my palm, and said : 
Of poison, pestilence, or war, 
Gout, stone, defluxion, or catarrh, 
You have no reason to beware. 
Beware the coxcomb's idle prate ; 
Chiefly, my son, beware of that. 
Be sure, when you behold him, fly 
Out of all ear-shot, or you die." 

To Rufus' Hall we now draw near : 
Where he was 5uramon'd to appear. 



I 



19 



Refute the charge the plainlifF brought. 

Or suffer judgment by default. 

*' For heav'n's sake, if you love me, wait 

One moment ! I'll be with you straight." 

Glad of a plausible pretence — 

** Sir, I must beg you to dispense 

With my attendance in the court. 

My legs will surely suffer for't." — 

" JVay, prithee, Carlos, stop awhile !" 

" Faith, Sir, in law I have no skill. 

Besides 1 have no time to spare, 

I must be going you know where.'' 

" Well I protest, I'm doubtful now, 

Whether to leave ray suit or you !" 

"Me without scruple ! (I reply) 

Me by all means, Sir !" — "No, not I. 

Allans Monsieur I'''' 'Twere vain (you know) 

To strive with a victorious foe. 

So I reluctantly obey. 

And follow, where he leads the way. 

*' You, and Newcastle are so close, 
Still hand and glove, Sir — I suppose. — 
Newcastle (let me tell you. Sir) 
Has not his equal every where. 
Well. There indeed your fortune's made. 
Faith, Sir, you understand your trade. 
Would you but give me your good word ! 
Just introduce me to my lord. 
I should serve charmingly by way 
Of second fiddle, as they say : 



20 



What think you, Sir ? 'twere a good jest* 

'Slife, we should quickly scout the rest." — 

" Sir, you mistake the matter far, 

We have no second fiddles there. — 

Richer than I some folks may be ; 

More learned, but it hurts not rae. 

Friends tho' he has of diflF'rent kind. 

Each has his proper place assign'd.'* 

" Strange matters these alleg'd by you !" — 

" Strange they raaj^be, but they are true." — ■ 

" Well then, I vt»Mr, 'tis mighty clever, 

IN^ow I long ten times more than ever 

To be advanc'd extremely near 

One of his shining character. 

Have but the will — there wants no more^ 

'Tis plain enough you have the pow'r. 

His easy temper (that's the worst) 

He knows, and is so shy at first. — 

But such a cavalier as you — 

Lord, Sir, you'll quickly bring him to !" — 

" Well ; if I fail in my design, 

Sir, it shall be no fault of mine. 

if by the saucy servile tribe 

Denied, what think you of a bribe? 

Shut out to-day, not die -with sorrow, 

But try my luck again to-morrow. 

Never attempt to visit him 

But at the most convenient time, 

Attend him on each levee day, 

And there my humble duty pay, 



21 

Labour, like this, our want supplies j 
And they must stop, who mean to rise." 

While thus he wittingly harangu'd, 
For which you'll guess I wisli'd him hang*<i, 
Campley, a friend of mine, came by, 
Who knew his humour more than I, 
We stop, salute, and — " wliy so fast, 
Friend Carlos P Whither all this haste ?"-;- 
Fir'd at the thoughts of a reprieve, 
I pinch him, pull him, twitch liis sleeve, 
]Vod, beckon, bite my lips, wink, pout, 
Do ev'ry thing but speak plain out : 
While he, sad dog, from the beginning 
Determin'd to mistake my meaning j 
Instead of pitying my curse, 
By jeeriug made it ten times worse. 
" Campley, what secret (pray !) was that 
You wanted to communicate .^" 
*' I recollect. But 'tis no matter. 
Carlos, we'll talk of that hereafter. 
E'en let the secret rest. 'Twill tell 
Another time, Sir, just as well." 

Was ever such a dismal day ? 
Unlucky cur, he steals away, 
And leaves me, half bereft of life 
At mercy of the butcher's knife j 
When sudden, shouting from afar, 
See hrs antagonist appear ! 



22 

The bailiff seiz'd him quick as thought, 
" Ho, Mr. Scoundrel ! Are you caught? 
Sir, you are witness toth' arrest." 
" Aye marry, Sir, I'll do ray best." 
The mob huzzas. Away they trudg6. 
Culprit and all, before the judge. 
Meanwhile 1 luckily enough 
(Thanks to Apollo) got clear off. 



ADDRESSED TO MISS 

On reading 
THE PRAYER FOR INDIFFERENCE. 

[1762.]* 

And dwells there in a female heart, 

By bounteous heav'n design'd 
The choicest raptures to impart, 

To feel the most refin'd — 

Dwells there a wish in such a breast 

Its nature to forego, 
To smother in ignoble rest 

At once both bliss and wo ? 

* For Mi's. Greville's Ode, see Annual Register, vol. 
V. p. 202*. 



t 



23 

Far be the thought, and far the strain, 
Which breathes the low desire, 

How sweet soe'er the verse complain, 
Tho' Phcebus string the lyre. 

Come then, fair njaid (in nature wise) 
Who, knowing them, can tell 

From gen'rous sympathy what joys 
The glowing bosom swell. 

In justice to the various pow'rs 
Of pleasing, which you share. 

Join me, amid your silent hours, 
To form the better pray'r. 

With lenient balm, may Ob^ron hence 

To fairy-land be driv'n ; 
With ev'ry herb that blunts the sense 

Mankind receiv'd from heav'n. 

Oh ! if my Sov'reign Author please^ 

Far be it from ray fate 
To live, unblest, in torpid ease, 

And slumber on in state. 

Each tender tie of life defied 
Whence social pleasures spring, 

Pnmov'd with all the world beside, 
A. solitary thing—" 



24 

Sbme Alpine mountain, wrapt in snow. 
Thus braves the whirling Wast, 

Eternal winter doom'd to know, 
No genial spring to taste. 

In vain warm suns their influence shed, 

The zephyrs sport in vain. 
He rears unchang'd his barren head, 

Whilst beauty decks the plain. 

What tho' in scaly anuour drest. 

Indifference may repel 
The shafts of wo — in such a breast 

Wo joy can ever dwell. 

'Tis woven in the world's great plan, 
And fix'd by heav'n's decree. 

That all the true delights of man 
Should spring from Sympathy. 

'Tis nature bids, and whilst the law^ 

Of nature we retain. 
Our self-approving bosom draws 

A pleasure from its pain. 

Thus grief itself has comforts dear^ 

The sordid never know j 
A.nd ecstasy attends the tear, 

When virtue bids it flow. 



For, when it streams from that pure source, 

No bribes the heart can win. 
To check, or alter from its course 

The luxury within. 

Peace to the phlegm of sullen elves, 

Who, if from labour eas'd, 
Extend no care beyond themselves, 

Unpleasing and unpleas'd. 

Let no low thought suggest the pray'r, 
Oh ! grant, kind heav'n, to me, 

Long as I draw ethereal air 
Sweet Sensibility. 

Where'er the heav'nly nymph is seeu, 

With lustre beaming eye, 
A train, attendant on their Queen, 

(Her rosy chorus) fly. 

The jocund Loves in Hymen's band, 

With torches ever bright, 
And gen'rous Friendship hand in hand, 

With Pity's watry sight. 

The gentler virtues too are join'd, 

In youth immortal warm. 
The soft relations, which, combin'd, 

Give life her ev'ry charm. 

3 



26 

llie Arts corae smiling in the close, 

And lend celestial fire, 
The marble breathes, the canvas glow5. 

The Muses sweep the lyre. 

*' Still may my melting bosom cleave 

To suff'rings not my own, 
And still the sigh responsive heave, 

Where'er is heard a groan. 

So Pity shall take Virtue's partj 

Her natural ally, 
And fashioning my soften'd heart, 

Prepare it for the sky." 

This artless vow may heav'n receive, 
And you, fond maid, approve : 

So may your guiding angel give 
Whate'er you wish or love. 

So may the rosy-finger'd hours- 
Lead on the various year, 

And ev'ry joy, which now is yours. 
Extend a larger sphere. 

And suns to come, as round they whefel 
Your golden moments bless, 

With all a tender heart can feel 
Or lively fancy guess. 



27 
TRANSLATION FROM VIRGIL. 

^NEID, BOOK VllI, LINE 18. 

Thus Italy was moved— nor did the chief 
JEneas in his mind less tumult feel. 
On every side his anxious thought he turns, 
Restless, unfixt, not knowing what to choose. 
And as a cistern that in brim of brass 
Confines thechrystal flood, if chance the sun 
Smite on it, or the moon's resplendent orb. 
The quiv'ring light now flashes on the walls 
Now leaps uncertain to the vaulted roof: 
Such were the wav'ring motions of his mind. 
'Twas night — and weary nature sunk to rest. 
The birds, the bleating flocks were heard no more; 
At length, on the cold ground, beaeath the damp 
And dewy vault, fast by the river's brink. 
The Father of his country sought repose. 
When lo ! among the spreading poplar boughs 
t'^orth fi'om his pleasant stream, propitious rose 
The god of Tiber : clear transparent gauze 
Infolds his loins, his brows with reeds are crown'd : 
And these his gracious words to sooth his care : 

" Heav'n-born, who bring'st our kindred home 
again, 
Rescued, and giv'st eternity to Troy, 
Long have Laurentum and the Latian plains 
Expected thee j behoW ihy fixt abode, 



28 



Fear not tlie threats of war, the storm is pass'xl, 
The gods appeas'd. For proof that what thon 

hear'st 
Is no vain forgery or dehisive dream, 
Beneath the grove that borders my green bank, 
A milk-white swine, with thirty milk-white young 
Shall greet thy wond'ring eyes. Mark well tkft 

place ; 
For 'tis thy place of rest, there end thy toils : 
There, thrice ten years elaps'd, fair Alba's walls 
Shall rise ; fair Alba, by Ascanius' hand. 
Thus shall it be — now listen, while I teach 
The means t' accomplish these events at hand. 
Th' Arcadians here, a race from Pallas sprung, 
Following Evander's standard and his fate. 
High on these mountains, a well-chosen spot, 
Have built a city, for their Grandsire's sake 
Warned Pallanteum. These perpetual war 
Wage with the Latians : join'd in faithful league 
And arras confederate, add them to your camp. 
Myself between my winding banks, will speed 
Your well-oar'd barks to stem th' opposing tide. 
Rise, goddess-born, arise ; and with the first 
Declining stars, seek Juno in thy pray'r. 
And vanquish all her wrath with suppliant vows. 
When conquest crowns thee, then remember Me. 
I am the Tiber, whose caerulean stream 
Heav'n favours ; I with copious flood divide 
These grassy banks, and cleave the fruitful meadS. 
My raaasion. This— and lofty cities crown 



29 



My fountain-lie.id." — He spoke, and sought the 

deep, 
And plunged Iiis form beneath the closing flood, 
^neas at the morning dawn awoke, 
And rising, with uplifted eye beheld 
The orient sun, then dipp'd his palms, and scoop'd 
The brimming stream, and thus address'd-the skies. 
"Ye nymphs, Laurentian nymphs, who feed the 

source 
Of many a stream, and thou, with thy blest flood 
O Tiber, hear, accept me, and afford. 
At length afford, a shelter from my woes. 
Where'er in secret cavern under ground 
Thy waters sleep, where'er they spring to light. 
Since thou hast pity for a wretch like me, 
My offVings and my vows shall wait thee still •., 
Great horned Father of Hesperian floods, 
Be gracious now, and ratify thy word." 
He said, and chose two gallies from his fleet. 
Fits them with oars, and clothes the crew in arms. 
When lo ! astonishing and pleasing sighl. 
The milk-white dam, with her unspotted brood, 
Lay stretch'd upon the bank, beneath the grove, 
To thee, the pious Prince, Juno, to thee 
Devotes them all, all on thine altar bleed. 
That live-long niglit old Tiber smooth'd his flood, 
And so restrain'd it, that it seera'd to stand 
Motionless as a pool, or silent lake. 
That not a billow might resist their oars. 
With cheerful sound of exhortation soon 

3 ^ 



60 



Their voyage they begin ; the pitciiy ki*el 
Slides through the gentle deep, the quiet stream 
Admires th' unwonted burthen that it bears, 
Well polish'd arms, and vessels painted gay. 
Beneath the shade of various trees, between 
Th' umbrageous brandies of the spreading groves 
They cut their liquid way, nor day, nor night 
They slack their course, unwinding as they go 
The long meanders of the peaceful tide. 

The glowing sun was in meridian height, 
When from afar they saw the humble walls, 
And the few scatter'd cottages, which now 
The Roman pow'r has equall'd with the clouds ; 
But such was then Evander's scant domain. 
They steer to shore, and hasten to the town. 

It chanced th' Arcadian monarch on that day. 
Before the walls, beneath a shady grove, 
Was celebrating high, in solemn feast, 
Alcides and his tutelary gods. 
Pallas, his son, was there, and there the chief 
Of all his youth ; with these, a worthy tribe, 
His poor but venerable senate, burnt 
Sweet incense, and their altars smoked with blood. 
Soon as they saw the towering masts approach. 
Sliding between the trees, while the crew rest 
Upon their silent oars, amazed they rose, 
Not without fear, and all forsook the f^ast. 
,But Pallas undisraay'd his jav'lin seiz'd, 
Rush'd to the bank, and from a rising ground 
Forbad thera to disturb the sacred rites. 



11 



31 



•^ Ye stranger youth ! What prompts you to ex- 
plore 
This untried way ? and whither do ye steer f' 
Whence, and who are ye ? Bring ye peace or war T" 
JEneas from liis lofty deck holds forth 
The peaceful olive branch, and thus replies : 
*•' Trojans and enemies to the Latian state, 
Whom they with unprovok'd hostilities 
Have'driv'n away, thou see'st. We seek Evau- 

der-~ 
Say this — and say beside, the Trojan chiefs 
Are come, and seek his friendship and his aid.'" 
Pallas with wonder heard that awful name, 
And "whosoe'erthou art," he cried, " come forth ; 
Bear thine own tidings to my father's ear, 
And be a welcome guest beneath our roof." 
He said, and press'd the stranger to his breast : 
Then led him from the river to the grove, 
Where, courteous, thtis iEneas greets the kilog : 
" Best of the Grecian race, to whom I bow 
(So wills my fortune) suppliant, and stretch forth 
In sign of amity this peaceful branch, 
I fear'd thee not, altho' I knew thee well 
A Grecian leader, born in Arcady, 
And kinsman of th' Atridae. Me my virtue, 
That means no wrong to thee — the Oracles, 
Our kindred families allied of old. 
And thy renown diffused thro' ev'ry land, 
Have all conspired to bind in friendship to thee. 
And send me not unwilling to thy shore?. 



32 



Dardanus, author of the Trojan state, 
(So say the Greeks) was fair Electra's son; 
Electra boasted A,tla8 for her sire, 
Whose shoulders high sustain th' sethereal orbs. 
Your sire is Mercury, whom Maia bore, 
Sweet Maia, on Cyllene's hoary top. 
Her, if we credit aught tradition old, 
Atlas of yore, the selfsame Atlas, claim'd 
His dciughter. Thus united close in blood, 
Thy race and ours one common sire confess. 
With these credentials fraught, I would not send 
Ambassadors with artful phrase to sound 
And win thee by degrees — but came myself — 
Me therefore, me thou see'st ; ray life the stake : 
'Tis I, j3Cneas ; who implore thine aid. 
Should Daunia, that now aims the blow at thee, 
Prevail to conquer ws, nought then, they think, 
Will hinder, but Hesperia must be theirs. 
All theirs, from th' upper to tlie nether sea. 
Take then our friwidship, and return us thine. 
We too have courage, we have noble minds. 
And youth well tried, and exercis'd in arms. 

Thus spoke ^Eneas— He with fixt regard 
Survey'd him speaking, features, form, and mien. 
Then bi-iefly thus — " Thou noblest of thy name, 
How gladly do I take thee to my heart, 
How gladly tlius confess thee for a friend ! 
In thee I trace Anchises ; his thy speech, 
Thy voice, thy count'nance. For I well 
her, 



33 



Many a day since, when Priam journey'd foitk 
To Salamis, to see the land where dwelt 
Hesione, his sister, he push'd on 
E'en to zVrcadia's frozen bounds. 'Twas then 
The bloom of youth was glowing on my cheek ; 
Mucli I admired the Trojan chiefs, and much 
Their king, the son of great Laomedon, 
But most Anchises, tow'ring o'er them all. 
A youthful longing seiz'd me to accost 
The hero, and embrace him ; I drew near. 
And gladly led him to the walls of Pheneus. 
Departing, he distinguish'd me with gifts, 
A costly quiver stored with Lycian darts, 
A robe inwove with gold, with gold imboss'd, 
Two bridles, those which Pallas uses now. 
The friendly league tkou hast solicited 
I give thee therefore, and to morrow, all 
My chosen youth shall wait on your return. 
Meanwhile, since thus in friendship ye are come, 
Rejoice with us, and join to celebrate 
These annual rites, which may not be delay'd, 
And be at once familiar at our board." 

He said, and hade replace the feast removed ; 
Himself upon a grassy bank disposed 
The crew, but for .^neas order'd fortli 
A couch, spread with a lion's tawny shag, 
And bad him share the honours of his throne. 
Th' appointed youth with glad alacrity 
Assist the lab'ring priest to load the board 
With roasted entrails of the slaughter'd beeves, 
\^^ell-kneaded bread and mantling bowl*. WelT 
pleas'd 



34 



iEneas and the Trojan youtli regale 

On the huge length of a well-pastur'd chine. 

Hunger appeas'd, and tables all despatch'd^ 
Thus spake Evander : " Superstition here, 
In this our solemn feasting has no part. 
No, Trojan friend, from utmost danger sav'd 
In gratitude this worship we renew. 
Behold that rock which nods above the vale, 
Those bulks of broken stone dispers'd around, 
How desolate the shatter'd cave appears. 
And what a ruin spreads th' iucumber'd plain. 
Within this pile, but far within, was once 
The den of Cacus ; dire his hateful form, 
That shunn'd the day, half monster and half man» 
Blood newly shed stream'd ever on the ground 
Smoking, and many a visage pale and wan 
NaiI'd at his gate, hung hideous to the sight. 
Vulcan be t the brute : vast was his size, 
And from his throat he belch'd his father's fires. 
But the day came that brought us what we wish'4? 
Th' assistance and the presence of a God. 
Flusli'd with his vict'iy and the spoils he won 
From triple-fonn'd Geryon, lately slain, 
The great avenger, Hercules appear'd. 
Hither he drove his stately bulls, and pour'd 
His herds along the vale. But the sly thief- 
Caeus, that nothing might escape his hand 
Of villainy or fraud, drove from the stalls 
Four of the lordliest of his bulls, and four 
The fairest of his heifers j by the tail 
He Jragg'd them to his den, that there conceaf d, 



s* 



j^o footsteps might betray the dark abode. 
And now his herd with provender sufficed, 
Akides would be gone : they as they went 
Still bellowing loud, made the deep echoing woods 
And distant hills resound : when hark ! one ox, 
Imprison'd close within the vast recess, 
Lows in return, and frustrates all his hope. 
Then fury seiz'd Akides, and his breast 
With indignation heav'd : grasping his club 
Of knotted oak, swift to the mountain-top 
He ran, he flew. Then first was Cacus seen 
To tremble, and his eyes bespoke his fears. 
Swift as an eastern blast he sought his den, 
And dread increasing wing'd him as he went. 
Drawn up in iron slings above the gate 
A rock was hung enormous. Such his haste, 
He burst the chains, aud dropp'd it at the door, 
Then grappled it with iron work within 
Of bolts and bars by Vulcan's art contrived. 
Scarce was he fast, when panting for revenge 
Came Hercules ; he gnash'd his teeth with rage. 
And quick as light'ning glanced his eyes around 
In quest of entrance. Fiery red, and stung 
With indignation, thrice he wheel'd his course 
About the mountain ; thrice, but thrice in vain. 
He strove to force the quarry at the gate. 
And thrice sat down o'erwearied in the vale. 
There stood a pointed rock, abnipt and rude 
That high o'erlook'd the rest, close at the back 
Of the fell monster's den, where birds obscene 
Of onjin.ous note resorted, choughs and dawt. 



3b 



This, as it Icau'd obliquely' to tlie left, 
Tlireat'ning the stream below, he from the right 
PushM with his utmost strength, aod to and fro 
He shook the mass, loosening its lowest base ; 
Then slioved it from its seat j down fell the pile j 
Sky tlmnder'd at the fall j the banks give way, 
Th' affrighted stream flows upward to his source. 
Behold the kennel of the brute exposed, 
The gloomy vault laid open. So, if chance 
Earth yawning to the centre should disclose 
The mansions, the pale mansions of the dead, 
Loath'd by the Gods, such would the gulf appear, 
And the ghosts tremble at the sight of day. 
The monster braying with unusual din 
Within his hollow lair, and sore amazed 
To see such sudden inroads of the light. 
Alcides press'd him close with what at hand 
Lay readiest, stumps of trees, and fragments huge 
Of mill-stone size. He, (for escape was noae) 
Wond'rous to tell ! forth from his gorge discharg'd 
A smoky cloud, that darken'd all the den ; 
Wreath after wreath he vomited amain 
The smoth'i iug vapour, mixt with fiery sparks. 
IVo sight could penetrate the veil obscure. 
The hero, more provoked, enuur'd not this. 
But, witli a headlong leap, he rush'd to where 
Tlie thickest cloud envelop'd his abode. 
Thei-e grasp'd he Cacus, spite of all his fires, 
Till crush'd within his arms, the monster shows 
His bloodless throat, now dry with panting hard, 
And his press'd eyeballs start. Soon he tears down 



37 



pThe barricade of rock, the dark abyss 

Lies open , and th' iraprisoa'd hulls, the theft 

He had with oaths denied, are brought to light J 

By th' heel.* the miscreant carcase is dragg'd fortb, 

His face, liis f*yes, all terrible, his breast 

Beset with bristles, and his sooty jaws 

Are viewM with wonder never to be cloyM. 

Hence the celebrity thou seest, and hence 

This festal day, Potitius first enjoin'd 

Posterity these solemn rites, he first 

With those who bear the great Pinarian name 

To Hercules devoted, in the grove 

This altar buih, deem'd sacred in the highest 

By us, and sacred ever to be deem'd. 

Come then, my friends, and bind your youthful 

brows 
In praise of such deliv'rancF, and hold forth 
The brimming cup ; your deities and ours 
Are now the same, then drink, and freely too. 
So saying, he twisted round iiis rev'rend locks 
A variegated poplar wreath, and fill'd 
His right hand with a consecrated bowl. 
At once all pour libations on the board. 
All offer pray'r. And now the radiant sphere 
Of day descending, eventide drew near. 
When first Potitius with the priests advanc'd. 
Begirt with skins, and torches in tlieii- hands. 
High piled with meats of sav'ry taste, they ranged 
The chargers, and renewed the grateful feast. 
Then came the Salii, crown'd with poplar too, 
Girding the blazing altars j here the youth 

4 



3^ 



Advanced, a choir harmonious, there were heard 
The rev'iend seers responsive; praise they sung, 
Much praise in honour of Alcides deeds ; 
How first with infant gripe, two serpents huge 
He strangled, sent fron. Juno ; next they sung, 
How Troja and Oechalia he destioy'd, 
Fair cities both, and many a toilsome task 
Beneath Eurystheus, (so his step-dame will'd) 
Achieved victorious. Thou, the cloud-born pair 
Hylseus fierce and Fholus, monstrous twins, 
Thou slew'st the minotaur, the plague of Crete, 
And the vast lion of the Nemean rock. 
Thee Hell, and Cerberus, Hell's porter, fear'd, 
Stretch'd in his den upon his half gnaw 'd bones. 
Thee no abhorred form, not ev'n the vast 
Typhceus could appal, tho' clad in arras. 
Hail, true born son of Jove, among the Gods 
At length enroU'd, nor least illustrious thou, 
Haste thee propitious, and approve our songs : — 
Thus hymn'd the chorus ; above all they sing 
The cave of Cacus, and the flames he breath'd. 
The whole grove echoes, and the hills rebound. 

The rite? perform'd, all hasten to the town. 
The king, bending with age, held as he went 
iEneas, and his Pallas by the hand, 
With much variety of pleasing talk 
Short'ning the way. jEneas, with a smile, 
Looks round him, charm'd with the delightful 

scene, 
And many a question asks, and much be learns 
Of heroes far renown'd in ancient times. 
Then spake Evander. These extensive groves 



39 



Were once inhabited by fauns and nymphs 

Produced beneatli their shades, and a jude race 

Of men, the progeny uncouth of elius 

And knotted oaks. They no iefineraeut knew 

Of laws or manners civilized, to yoke 

The steer, with forecast provident to store 

The hoarded grain, or manage what they had, 

But browsed like beasts upon the leafy boughs, 

Or fed voracious on their hunted prey. 

An exile from Olympus, and expell'd 

His n-itive realm by thunder-bearing Jove 

First Saturn came. He from the mountains drew 

This herd of men untractable and fierce. 

And gave them laws : and cali'd his hiding place 

This growth of forests, Latium. Such the peace 

His land possess'd, the golden age was then, 

So famed in story ; till by slow degrees 

Far other times, and of far difTrent hue 

Succeeded, thirst of gold and thirst of blood. 

Then came Ausonian bands, and armed hosts 

From Sicily, and Latium often changed 

Her master and her name. At length arose 

Kings, of whom Tybris of gigantick form 

Was chief; and we Italians since have cali'd 

The river by his name ; thus Albula 

(So was the country cali'd in ancient days) 

W.is quite forgot. Me from my native land 

An exile, thro' the dang'rous ocean driv'n. 

Resistless fortune and relentless fate 

Placed where thou see'st me, Phoebus, and 



40 

The nympli Carmentis, witli maternal care 
Attendant ou my wandVings fixt me here. 

[Ten lines omitted.] 

He said, and shew'd him the Tarpeian rock, 
And the rude spot, where now the capitol 
Stands all magnificent and bright with gold, 
Then overgrown with thoras. And yet ev'n then. 
The s-.vnins belield that sacred scene with awe ; 
The grove, the rock, inspired religious fear. 
This jiiove, he said, that crowns the lofty top 
Of tiiis fair hill, some deity, we know, 
Inhabits, but what.deity we doubt. 
Th' Arcadiihs speak of Jupiter himseJf, 
That t'ley h;ive often seen him, shaking here 
His gloomy iEgis, while the thunder-storms 
Came roiling all around him. Turn thine eyei* 
Behold liiat ruin ; those diilnantled walls, 

Wliere once two towns, lauiculura 

By Janus this, and that by Saturn built, 
Satuinia. Such discourse brought them beneath 
Th*- roof of poor Evander, thence they saw. 
Where now the pioud and stately forum standi^ 
The grazing herds wide scatter'd o'er the field. 
Soon as he enter'd- Hercules, he said, 
Victorious Hercules, on this threshold trod. 
These wails contain'd him, humble as they are. 
Da IT to despise magnificence, my friend, 
Prove thy divine descent by wortii divine. 
Nor view with haughty scorn this mean abode. 



41 



So saying, he led ^neas by the hand, 

And plac'd him on a cushion stufTd with leaves, 

Spread with the skin of a Lybistian bear. 

[The Episode of Venus and Vulcan omitted.] 

While thus in Lemnos Vulcan was employ'd, 
Awaken'd by the gentle dawn of day, 
And the shrill song of birds beneath the eaves 
Of his low mansion, old Evander rose. 
His tunick, and the sandals on his feet, 
And his good sword well girded to his side, 
A panther's skin dependent from his left 
And over his right shoulder thrown aslant. 
Thus was he clad. Two mastives followed him 
His whole retinue and his nightly guard. 



OVID. TRIST. LIB. V. ELEG. XII. 

Scribis, ut obledem. 

You bid me write t' amuse the tedious hours. 
And save from with'ring ray poetick powers, 
Hard is the task, my friend, for verse should flow 
From the free mind, not fetter'd down by wo j 
Restless amidst unceasing tempests tost, 
Whoe'er has cau«^efor sorrow, I have most. 
Would you bid Priam laugh, his sons al! slain, 
Or childless jViobe from tears refrain, 

4 * 



42 



Join thp gay dance, and lead the festive train? 

Does grief or study most befit the mind, 

To this i-eiuote, this barb'rous nook contiu'd ? 

Could you impart to my unshaken breast, 

The fortitude by Socrates possess'd, 

Soon would it sink beneath such woes as mine. 

For what is human strength to wrath divine? 

Wise as he was, and Heav'n pronounc'd him so, 

My sufF'rings would have laid that wisdom low. 

Could 1 forget my coutitry, thee and all. 

And ev'n th' offence to which I owe my fall, 

Yet fear aloni^ would freeze the poet's vein, 

While hostile troops swarm o'er the dreary plain. 

Add that the fatal rust of long disuse 

Cniits me for the servise of the Muse. 

Tiiistles and weeds are all we can expect 

From the best soil irapov'rish'd by neglect ; 

Unexercis'd and to his stall confin'd. 

The fleetest racer would be left behind ; 

The best built bark that cleaves the wat'ry way, 

Laid useless by, would moulder and decay — 

Ko hope remains that time shall me restore. 

Mean as I was, to what I was before. 

Think how a series of desponding cares 

Benumbs the genius, and its force impairs. 

How oft, as now, on this devoted sheet, 

My verse constrain'd to move with measur'd feet, 

Reluctant and laborious limps along, 

And proves itself a wretched exile's song. 

What is it tunes the most melodious lays ? 

'Tis emulation and the thirst of praise. 



43 



A noble thirst, and not unknown to me, 

While smoothly \Yafted on a calmer sea. 

But can a wretch like UviJ pant lor fame, 

No, rather let the world forget uiy name. 

Is it because that world approved uiy sirairj, 

You prompt me to the same pursuit agam ? 

No, let tlie Nine tb' ungratehil ti-uth excuse, 

I charge my hopeless ruin on the iVJuse, 

And, like Periiius, meet my just desert, 

The victim of my own pernicious art. 

Fool that ( was to be so warn'd in vain. 

And, shipwreck'd once, to tempt the deep again. 

Ill fares the bard in this unletter'd land. 

None to consult, and none to understand. 

The purest verse has no admirers here, 

Their own rude language only suits their ear. 

Rude as it is, at length familiar giown, 

I learn it, and almost unlearn my own — 

Yet to say truth, ev'n here the Muse disdains 

Continement, and attempts her former stiains. 

But finds the strong desire is not the pow'r. 

And what her taste condemns, the flames devour 

A part, perhaps, like this, escapes the doom, 

And tho' unworthy finds a friend at Rome, 

BuL oh the cruel art, that could undo 

Its vot'ry thus, would that could perish too ! 



44 

A TALE 

FOUNDED ON A FACT, 

WHICH HAPPENED IN JANUARY, 1779. 

Where Humber pours his rich coramercial stream, 
There dwelt a wretch, who breath'd but to blas- 
pheme. 
In subterraneous caves his life he led, 
Blfirk as the mine, in which he wrought for bread. 
When on a day, emerging from the deep, 
A SHbbath-day, (such sabbaths thousands keep !) 
The wages of his weekly toil he bore 
To buy a cock — whose blood might win him more j 
As if the noblest of the feather'd kind 
Were but for battle and for death design'd ; 
As if the consecrated hours were meant 
For sport, to minds on cruelty intent ; 
It ciiancM, (^such chp.nces Providence obey) 
He met a fellow-lab'rer on the w^.y, 
Whose heart the same desires had once inflamed j 
But now the savige temper was reclaim'd. 
Persuasion on his lips had taken place ; 
For all plead well who plead the cause of grace. 
His iron-heart with Scripture he assail'd, 
Woo'd him to hear a sermon, and prevail'd. 
His riithlul bcv t!ie mighty pieacher drew, 
liwift, as the lightning-glimpse, the arrow flew. 



45 



Me wept ; he trembled ; cast his eves around, 
To 'iid a worse than he ; but none 'le ibiiiid. 
He feit his sins, and wonder'd he should feel. 
Grace made the wound, and grace alone could 

heal. 
Now farewell oaths, and blasphemies, and lies t 
He quits the sinner's for the martyr's- prize. 
That holy day was washed with manj- a tear, 
Gilded with hope, yet shaded too by fear 
The next, his swarthy brethren of tie mine 
Learfi'd, by his alter'd speech — the change divine ! 
Lau^h'd when they should have wept, and swore 

the day 
Was nigh, when he would swear as fast as they. 
" No (said the penitent .-) such words .^ba!l share 
*' This breath no ipore ; devoted now to pray'r. 
*' O ! if thou see'st, (thine eye tlie future sees) 
" That I shall yet again blaspheme, like these; 
"Now strike me to the ground, on which I kneel, 
"Ere yet this heart reiapses into steel ; 
" Now take me lo that Heaven, 1 once defied, 
" Thy presence, thy embrace !'♦ — He spoke and 

died ! 



TRANSLATION 

OF A 

SIMILE IN PARADISE LOST. 

[June 1780.] 

So when, from mountain tops, the dusky cloudt 
Ascending, &c." 

Quales aerii mentis de vertice nubes 

Cum surgunt, etjam Boreae tuniida oraqui§- 

runt, 
Caelum liilares abdit, spissa caligine, vultuB : 
Tum si jiicundo tandem sol prodeat ore, 
Et croceo montes et pascua himine tingat, 
Gaudent omnia, aves mulcent concentibus agr08, 
Balatuque oviura colles vallesque resultant. 



TRANSLATION 

OF 

DRYDEN'S EPIGRAM ON MILTON. 

" Three Poets in three distant ages born, &c.' 

[July 1780.] 

BES tria, sed longe distantia, saecula Vates 
Ostentant tribus e gentibus eximios. 



f^ 



47 



Graecia subliinem, cum majestate disertum 
Roma tulit, felix Anglia utrique parem. 

Partubus ex binis Natura exhausta, coacta est, 
Tertius u^fieret, consociare duos. 



TO 

THE REV. MR. NEWTON, 

ON HIS RETURN FROM RAMSGATE. 
[Oct. 1780.] 

That ocean you have late survey 'd, 

Those rocks I too have seen, 
But I, afflicted and dismay 'd, 

You, tranquil and serene. 

You from the flood-controlling steep 
Saw stretch'd before your view, 

With conscious joy, the threat'ning deep, 
No longer such to you. 

To me, the waves that ceaseless broke 

Upon the dang'rous coast. 
Hoarsely and ominously spoke 

Of all my treasure lost. 

Your sea of troubles you have past, 
And found the peaceful shore j 

I, tempest- toss'd, and wreck'd at last 
Come home to port no more. 



48 



LOVE ABUSED. 

What is thfer6 in the vale of iiiff 
Half so delightful as a wife, 
When friendship, love, and peace conibine 
To stamp the marriage-bond divine ? 
The stream of pure and genuine love 
Derives its current from above ; 
And earth a second Eden shows, 
^ Ijere'er the healing water flows : 
But ah, if from the dykes and drains 
Of sensual nature's fev'rish veins, 
Lust, like a lawless headstrong flood, 
Impregnated with ooze and mud, 
Descending fast on every side 
Once mingles with the sacred tide, 
Farewell the soul-euliv'ning scene ! 
The hanks that wore a smiling green, 
With rank dr-tilement overspread, 
Bewail their flow'ry beauties dead. 
The stream polluted, dark, and dull, 
Diffus'd into a Stygian pool. 
Through life's last melancholy years 
Is fed with everflowing tears : 

Complaints supply the zephyr's part. 
And sighs that heave a breaking heart. 



49 



A POETICAL EPISTLE TO LADY AUSTR^f. 

Dec, 17, 1781. 

Dear Anna — hefwcf'n friend and friend. 
Prose answers every coaimoti end ; 
Serves, in a fh'm and homely way, 
T' expi CSS til' occurrence of the day ; 
Oiji- health, the weather, and the news ; 
What walks we take, what books we choose ; 
And ail the floating trionghts we fiad 
Upon the surface of the mind. 

Bnt when a poet takes the pen, 
Far more alive than other men, 
He feels agen^.e tingling come 
Down to his finger and his thumb, 
Dcriv'd from nature's noblest part, 
The centre of a glowing heart : 
And this is what the world, who knows 
No fliglits shove the pitch of prose, 
His more sublime vagaries slighting, 
Dmominates an itch for writing. 
No wonder 1, who scribble rhyme 
To catch the trifiers of the time, 
And telJ tiiem tjuths divine and clear, 
Wliicli, couch'd in prose, they will not hear; 
Vi' ho iahour hard to allu''e and draw 
The loiterers I never saw, 



50 

Should reel that Itching, and that tingling, 
\V ith all my purpose intermingling, 
To your intrinsick merit true, 
When call'd t' address myself to you. , 

Mysterious are His ways, whose power 
Brings forth that unexpected hour, 
When minds, that never met before. 
Shall meet, unite, and part no more : 
It is th' allotment of the skies. 
The hand of the Supremely Wise, 
That guides and governs our affections, 
And plans ahd orders our connexions : 
Directs us in our distant road. 
And marks the bounds of our abode. 
Thus we were settled when you found us, 
Peasants and children all around us. 
Not dreaming of so dear a friend. 
Deep in the abyss of Silver-End.* 
Thus Martlia, ev'n against her will, 
Ferch'd on the top of yonder hill ; 
And you, though you must needs prefer 
The fairer scenes of sweet Sancerre,f 
Are come from distant Loire, to choosf; 
A cottage on the banks of Ouse. 
This page of Providence quite new, 
And now just op'uing to our view, 

* An obscure part of Olnej-, adjoining to tlie residence 
of Cowper, which faced the market-place. 
t Lady Austen's residence in France. 



51 



Employs our present tliouglits and paio» 
To guess, and spell, what it contains : 
But day by day, and year by year, 
Will make the dark enigma clear j 
And furnish us;, perliaps, at last, 
Like other scenes already past, 
Witli proof, that we, and our affairs. 
Are part of a Jehovah's cares : 
' For God imfolds, by slow degrees, 
The purport of his deep decrees ; 
Sheds every hour a clearer light 
In aid of our defective sight ; 
And spreads, at length, before the soul, 
A beautiful and perfect whole. 
Which busy man's iuventive brain 
To*o to anticipate, in vain. 

Say, Anna, had you never known 
The beauties of a rose full blown, 
Could you, tho' luminous your eye, 
By looking on the bud, descry. 
Or guess, with a proplietick power, 
The future splfn<iour of the flower ? 
Just so, th' Omnipotent, who turns 
The system of a world's concerns, 
From mere minutiae can educe 
Events of most important use; 
And bid a dawning sky display 
The blaze of a meridian day. 
The works of man tend, one and all, 
As needs they must, from great to small 



52 

And vanity absorbs at length 
The inoniimeiits of luim ui strength. 
But who oan tell how vast the plan 
Which this day's incident began? 
Too small, perhaps, the slight occasion 
For our dim-sij;hted observation j 
It pass'd UDiiotic'd, as the bird 
That cleaves the yielding air unheard, 
And yet may prove, when understood, 
An harbinger of endless good. 

Not that I deem, or mean to call 
Friendship a blessing cheap or small : 
But merely to remark, that ours, 
Like some of nature's sweetest flowers, 
Rose from a seed of tiny size. 
That seem'd to promise no such prize ; 
A transient visit intervening, 
And made almost without a meaning, 
(Hardly the eifect of inclination, 
Much less of pleasing expectation) 
Produc'd a friendsiiip, tiien begun. 
That has cemented us in one j 
And piae'd it in our power to prove, 
By long ddelity and love. 
That Solomon has wisely spoken ; 
" A ttircefold cord is not soon broken." 



63 



FROM A LETTER TO THE REV. MB. 
NEWTON, 

Late Rector of St. Mary Woolnoth, 

[Dated May 28, 1782.1 

Says the pipe to the sniifF-box, I can't understand 
What the ladies and gentlemen see in your 
face, 

That you are in fashion all over the land, 
And I am so much fallen into disgrace. 

Do but see what a pretty contemplative air 

I give to the company — pray do but note 'em-- 
You would think that the wise men of Greece 

were all there, 
Or, at least, would suppose them the wise men of 

Gotham. 

My breath is as sweet as the breath of blown roses, 
While you are a nuisance where'er you appear ; 

There is uothinji but sniv'ling and blowing of noses, 
Such a noise as turns any man's stomach to hear. 

Then lifting his lid in a delicate way. 

And op'ning his mouth with a sniile quite en 

gaging, 

5# 



J 4 



The box in reply was heard plainly to say, 
W hat a silly dispute is tliis we are waging ! 

If yon hare a little of merit to claim, 

You may tliauk tlie sweet-smelling Virginiaw 
weed, 
And I, if 1 seem to deserve any blame, 

The before-mentioned drug in apology plead. 

Thus neither the praise nor the blame is our own, 
No room for a sneer, much less a cachinnus, 

We are vehicles, not of tobacco alone, - 
But of any thing else they may choose to put 



COLUBRIAD. 

[1782.] 

Ci osE by the threshold of tlie door nail'd fast 

Three kittens sat ; each kitten look'd aghast. 

1 passing swift, and inattentive by, 

At ihe three kittens cast a careless eye ; 

Kot muckj concern'd to know what they did there j 

Kot deeming kittens worth a poet's care. 

But presently a loud and furious hiss 

©aus'd me to stop, and to exclaim " what's this?" 



55 



When lo ! upon the threshold met myJview, 
With head erect, and eyes of fiery hue, 
A viper, long as Count de Grasse's queue. 
Forth from his head his forked tongue lie throwsf, 
Darting it full against a kitten's nose j 
Who having never seen, in field or house, 
The like, sat still and silent as a mouse : 
Only projecting, with attention due. 
Her wiiisker'd face, she ask'd him, " who are 

you ?" 
On to the hall went I, with pace not slow, 
But swift as lightning, for a long Dutch hoe : 
With Which Well arm'd f hasten'd to the spot, 
To find the viper, but I found him not. 
And turning up the leaves and shrubs around, 
Found only, that he was not to be found. 
But still the kittens sitting as before. 
Sat watching close the bottom of the door. 
" I hope," said I, *' the villain I would kill, 
Has slipp'd betweeu the door, and the door's sill ; 
And if I make despatch, and follow hard, 
No doubt but I shall find him in the yard ;" 
For long ere now it should have been rehears'd, 
'Twas in the garden that I found him first. 
Ev'n there I found him, there the full-grown cat 
His head, with velvet paw, did gently pat j 
As curious as the kittens erst had been 
To learn what this phenomenon might mean. 
Fill'd with heroick ardour at the sight. 
And fearing every moment he would bite, 



56 



And rob our household of our only cat, 
That was of age to combat with a rat ; 
With out stretch'd hoe I slew him at the door, 
And taught hira never to come there no mori 



ON FRIENDSHIP. 

Amicitia nisi inter bonos esse non potest.— Cicert. 

[1782.] 

What virtue can we name, or grace, 
But men unqualiBed and base 

Will boast it their possession ? 
Profusion apes the noble part 
Of liberality of heart. 

And dulness of discretion. 

But, as the gem of richest cost 
Is ever counterfeited jaost. 

So, always, Imitation 
Employs the utmost skill she can 
To counterfeit the faitliful man. 

The friend of long duration. 

Some will pronounce me too severe — 

But long experience speaks me clear ; 
Therefore that censure scornins:. 



57 

I will proceed to mark the shelves, 
On which so many dash themselves, 
And give the simple warning. 

Vouth, unadmonish'd by a guide, 
Will trust to any fair outside : 

An errour soon corrected ; 
For who, but learns, with riper years, 
That man, when smoothest he appears, 

Is most to be suspected ? 

But here again a danger lies ; 
Lest, thus deluded by our eyes, 

And taking trash for treasure, 
We should, when undeceived, conclude 
Friendship, imaginary good, 

A mere Utopian pleasure. 

An acquisition, rather rare, 
Is yet no subject of despair ; 

Nor should it seem distressful, 
If either on forbidden ground. 
Or, where it was not to be found, 

We sought it unsuccessful. 

Ko friendship will abide the test 
That stands on sordid interest 

And mean self love erected ; 
Nor such, as may awhile subsist 
'Twixt sensualist and sensualist, 

For vicious ends connected. 



Who hopes a friend, should have a heart, 
Himsplf, well furnish'd for tiie part, 

And ready on occasion 
1*0 show the virtue that he seeks ; 
For 'tis an union that bespeaks 

A just reciprocation. 

A fretful temper will divide 

The closest knot that may be tied, 

By ceaseless sharp corrosion : 
A temper passionate and fierce 
May suddenly your joys disperse 

At one immense explosion. 

In vain the talkative unite 
With hope of permanent delight : 

The secret just committed 
They drop through mere desire to prate, 
Forgetting its important weight, 

And by themselves outwitted. 

How bright soe'er the prospect seems. 
All thoughts of friendship are but dreams, 

If envy chance to creep in ; 
An envious man, if you succeed, 
May prove a dang'rous foe indeed, 

But not a friend worth keeping. 

As envy pines at good possess'd, 
So jealousy looks forth distress'd 

On good that seems approaching ; 



59 

And, if success his steps attend, 
Discerns a rival in a triend, 

And hates him for encroaching. 

Hence authors of illustrions name, 
(Unless belied by common fame,) 

Are sadly prone to quarrel; 
To deem the wit a friend displays 
So much of loss to their own praise, 

And pluck each other's laurel. 

A man renowned for repartee. 
Will s Idora scruple to make free 

With friendship's finest feeling, 
Will thrust a dagger at your breast, 
And tell you, 'twas a special jest. 

By way of balm for healing. 

Beware of tattlers ; keep your ear 
Close stopt against the tales they hear; 

Fruits of their own invention; 
The separation of chief friends 
Is what their kindness most intends ; 

Their sport is your dissension. 

l-'iiendship that wantonly admits 
A joco serious play of wits 

In brilliant altercation. 
Is union such as indicates, 
Like hand-in-hand insurance-plates. 

Danger of conflagration. 



GO 

Some fickle creatures boast a aoul 
True as the needle to the pole ; 

Yet sliifting, like the weather. 
The needle's constancy i'oiego 
For any novelty, and show 

Its variations rather. 

Insensibility makes some 
Unseasonably deaf and dumb, 

When most you need their pity j 
'Tis waiting till the tears shall fall 
From Gog and Magog in Guildhall, 

Those playthings of the city. 

The great and small but rarely meet 
On terms of amity complete : 

Th' attempt would scarce be madder, 
Should any, from the bottom, hope 
At one huge stride to reach the top 

Of an erected ladder. 

Courtier and patriot caonot mix 
Their het'rogeneous politicks 

Without an effervescence, 
Such as of salts with lemon-juice, 
But which is raiely known t' induce, 

Like that, a coalescence. 

Religion should extinguish strife, 
And make a calm of human life : 
But even those, who difier 



©1 

Only on topicks left at large, 
How fiercely will tliey meet and charge ! 
No combatants are stiffer. 

To prove, alas ! my main intent, 
Needs no great cost of argument, 

No cutting and contriving; 
Seeking a real friend, we seem 
T' adopt the chyraist^s golden dream 

Witli still less hope of thriving. 

Then judge, or ere you choose your man. 
As circumspectly as you can, 

And, having made election. 
See that no disrespect of yours, 
Such as a friend but ill endures. 

Enfeeble his affection. 

It is not timber, lead, and stone. 
An Architect requires alone, 

To finish a great building ; 
The palace were but half complete, 
Could he by any chance forget 

The carving and the gilding. 

As similarity of mind. 

Or something not to be defin'd, 

First rivets our attention ; 
So, manners decent and polite. 
The same we practis'd at first sight. 

Must save it from declension. 

6 



62 

The man -who hails you Tom— or Jack^ 
And proves by thumping on your back 

His sense of your great merit, 
Is such a friend, that one had need 
Be very much his friend indeed, 

To pardon, or to bear it. 

Some friends make this their prudent plao- 
" Say little, and hear all you can j" 

Safe policy, but hateful. 
So barren sands imbibe the show'r, 
But render neither fruit nor flowV 

Unpleasant and ungrateful. 

They whisper trivial things, and small j 
But, to communicate at all 

Things serious, deem improper ; 
Their feculence and froth they show, 
But keep their best contents below, 

Just like a simm'ring copper. 

These samples (for alas ! at last 
These are but samples, and a taste 

Of evils yet unmeution'd) 
May prove the task, a task indeed. 
In which 'tis much, if we succeed, 

However well-intention'd. 

Pursue the theme, and you shall find 
A disciplin'd and furnish'd mind 
To be at least expedient. 



63 

And, after summing all the rest, 
Religion ruling in the breast 
A principal ingredient. 

True friendship has, in short, a grace 
More than terrestrial in its face, 

That proves it Heav'n descended 
Man's love of woman not so pure, 
Nor, when sincerest, so secure 

To last till life is ended. 



ON THE LOSS OF THE ROYAL GE0B6S. 

To the March in Scipio. 

WRITTEN WHEN THE NEWS ARRIVES, 

[September 1782.] 

Toll for the brave ! 

The brave that are no more ! 
All sunk beneath the wave, 

Fast by their native shore ! 

Eight hundred of the brave, 

Whose courage well was tried, 
Had made the vessel heel. 

And laid her on her side. 



A land breeze shodc the sbrouda, 

Aqd she was overset ; 
Down went the Royal George, 

With all her crew complete. 

Toll for the brave ! 

Brave Keinpenfelt 13 gone ; 
His last sea fight is fought j 

His work of glory done. 

It was not in the battle ; 

JVo tempesJt gave the shock ; 
She sprang no fatal leak ; 

She ran upon no rock. 

His sword was in its sheath j 
His fingers held the pen, 

When Kempenfelt went down, 
With twice four hundred men. 

Weigh the vessel up, 

Once dreaded by our foes ! 
And mingle with our cup. 

The tear that England owe«. 

Her timbers yet are sound, 
And she may float again, 

Full charg'd with England's thunder, 
And plough the distant maia. 

But Kempenfelt is gone, 
His victories are o'er j 



65 

Aud he and his eight hundred. 

Shall plough the wave no more. 

IN SUBMERSIONEM NAVIGIT, GUI GEOR- 
GIUS REGALE NOMEN, INDITUM. 

pLANGiMus fortes. Periere fortes, 
Palrium propter periere liftus 
Bis qiiater rentura ; subitD sub alto 
iEquore mersi. 

Navig, innitens lateri, jacebat, 
Malus ad sumiuas tr^pidabat undas, 
Cum levis, funes quatiens, ad imum 
Depulit aura. 

Plangimus fortes. Nimis, heu, caducani 
Fortibus vitam voluere parcae, 
Nee sinunt ultra tibi nos recentes 
Nectere laurus. 

Magne, qui nomen, licet incanorum, 
Traditum ex multis atavis tulisti ! 
At tuos olim memorabit aevum 
O'nne triumphos. 

Non hyems illos furibunda mersit, 
Non mari inclauso scopuli latentes, 
Fissa non rimis abies, nee atrox 
Abstulit ensis. 

#6 



66 

JVTavitae sed turn nimliira jocosi 
Voce t'allebaiit hilari laborera, 
Et qiiiescebat, calamoque dextram im- 
pleveral heros. 

Vos, quihus cordi est grave opus piuraque, 
Huiiiidum ex alto spolium levate, 
Et putrescentps sub aquis ainicoa 
Reddite aruicis ! 

Hi quidem (sic dis placuit) fiiere : 
Sed 1 atis, nondiim putris, ire possit 
Rursus in bplhuii, r>ritomHiQque nomen 
Tollere ad asira. 



SONG. 

ON PEACE. 

WRITTEN I\ THE SUMMER OF 1733, AT THK Rfi- 
QLK.^T •■>S LADY AUSTEN, WHO GAVK THK SEN 
TIM E.N T. 

Air — " My fond shepherds of fafe," ifc. 

No lonjier f follow a sound ; 

No Ioniser i dream I pursue : 
O happrifss ! not lo be found, 

Unattainable treasure, adieu ! 



67 



J have sought thee in splendour and dress, 
In the regions of pleasure and lasle ; 

I have sought thee, and seem'd to possess, 
But have proved thee a vision at last. 

An humble ambition and hope 

The voice of true wisdom inspires j 

'Tis sufficient, if Peace be the scope, 
And the summit of all our desires. 

Peace may be the lot of the mind 

That seeks it in meekness and love ; 

put rapture and bliss are confin'd 
To the glorified spirits above. 



SONG.* 
Air—'' The Lass of Pattit's Mill.'" 

When all within is peace, 

How nature seems to smile ! 
Delights tliat never cease. 

The live-long day beguile. 
From morn to dewy eve, 

Witb open hand she showers 
Fresh blessings to deceive, 

And sooth the silent houis. 

* Also written at ths request of I.ad} Ai!sn>iu 



68 

It is content of heart 

Gives nature power to please j 
The mind l!iat feels no smart, 

Enlivens all it sees ; ] 
Can make a .vintry sky 

Seem brij^ht as smiling May, 
And evening's closing eye 

As peep of early day. 

The vast majestick globe, 

So beauteously array 'd 
In nature's various robe, 

With wond'rous skill display'd, 
Is to a mourner's heart 

A dreary wild at best ; 
It flutters to depart. 

And longs to be at rest. 



VERSES 

8ELECTED FROM AN OCCASIONAL POEM, ENTITLED, 

VALEDICTION. 

[Nov. 1783.] 

Oh Friendship ! Cordial of the human breast I 
So little felt, so fervently profess'd ! 
Thy blossoms deck our unsuspecting years ; 
The promise of delicious fruit appears : 



69 



We bug the hopes of couslancy and truth, 
Such is the folly of our dreaming ycuth j 
But soon, alas ! detect the rash mistake, 
That sanguine inexperience loves to make ; 
And view with teais tli' expected harvest lost, 
Decay'd by time, or wither'd by a frost. 
Whoever undertakes a friend's great part 
Should be renew'd in nature, pure in heart, 
Prepar'd for martyrdom, and strong to prove 
A thousand ways the force of genuine love. 
He may be cail'd to give up health and gain, 
T' exchange content for trouble, ease for pain, 
To echo sigii for sigh, and groan for groan, 
And wet his cheeks with sorrows not his own. 
The heart 0/ man, for such a task too frail, 
When most relied on, is most sure to fail ; 
And, summonM to partake its fellow's wo, 
Starts from its office, like a bioken bow. 
Vol'ries of busines^^s, and of pleasure, prove 
Faithless alike in friendship and in love. 
Retir'd from all the circles of the gay, 
And a'.l the crowds, that bustle life away, 
'J'o scenes, where competition, envy, strife, 
Beget no thunder-clouds to trouble life. 
Let me, the charge of some good angel, find 
One, who has known, and has escap'd mankind j 
Polite, yet virtuous, who has brought away 
The manners, not the morals, of the day : 
With him, perhaps with Acr, (for men have known 
No firmer friendships than the fair have shown) 
/ 



70 



Let me enjoy, in some unthoiight-of spot. 
All former fiiends forgiven, and forgot, 
Down to the close of life's fast fading scene, 
Union of hearts, without a flaw between. 
*Tis grace, 'tis bounty, and it calls for praise, 
If God give health, that sunshine of our days ! 
And if he add, a blessing shared by few. 
Content of heart, more praises still are due — 
But if he grant a friend, that boon possess'd 
Indeed is treasure, and crowns ;ill the rest j 
And giving one, whose heart is in the skiei, 
Born from above, and made divinely wise. 
He gives, what bankrupt nature never can, 
Whose noblest coin is light and brittle man, 
Gold, purer far than Ophir ever knew, 
A soul, an image of himself, and therefore true. 



IN BREVITATEM VITJE SPATIl 
H0MINIBU8 CONCESSI. 

Br Dr. Jortin. 

Hki mihi ! Lege rata sol occidit atque resurgit, 
Lunaque mutatae reparat dispendia formae, 
Astraque, purpurei telis extincta diei, 
Rursus node vigeiit. Humiles telluris alumni, 
Graminis herba virens, et florum picta propago, 
Quos crudelis hyems lethali tabe peredit, 



71 



Gum Zepliyri vox blanda vocat. rediitque sereni 
Temperies annl, fcecundo e cespite surgunt. 
Nos, domini rerum, nos, magna et pulchra minati, 
Cum breve ver vitae robustaque transiit aetas, 
l)eficimus ; nee nos ordo revolubilis aui'as 
Reddit in aethereas, tumuli neque claustra resolvit. 



QN THE SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE. 

TRANSLATION OF THK FORBOOINO. 

[January 1784.] 

Suns that set, and moons that wane, 
Rise, and are restored again, 
Stars that orient day subdues, 
Night at her return renews. 
Herbs and flowers, the beauteous birth 
Of the genial womb of Earth, 
Suffer but a transient death 
From the winter's cruel breath. 
Zephyr speaks ; serener skies 
Warm the glebe, and they arise. 
We, alas ! Earth's haughty kings, 
We, that promise mighty things, 
Losing soon life's happy prime. 
Droop, and fade, in little time. 
Spring returns, but not our bloom j 
Still 'th wiot«r in the tomb. 



72 

EPITAPH ON JOHNSON. 

[January 1733.] 

Here Johnson lies — a sage by all allow'd, 
VVhoiu to have bred, may well make England 

pioud ; 
Wliose prose was eloquence, by wisdom taught, 
The graceful vehicle of virtuous thougiit ; 
Whose verse may claim — grave, masculiiie, and 

strong, 
Superiour praise to the mere poet's song ; 
Who many a noble gift from Heav*n possess'd, 
And faith at last, alone worth all the rest. 
<) man, immortal by a double prize, 
By fame on earth— by glory in the skies ! 



TO 

MISS C—, ON HER BIRTH-DAY. 

[1786.J 

How many between east and west, 
Disgrace their parent earth, 
V Whose deeds constrain us to detest 
The day that gave them birth ! 



73 

Not so when Stellvi's natal morn 
Revolving months restore, 

We can rejoice that she was born, 
And wish her born once more J 



GRATITUDE. 

ADDRESSED TO LADY HESKETH. 
[1786.] 

Thi s cap, that so stately appears, 

With riband-bound tassel on high, 
Which seems by the crest that it rears 

Ambitious of brushing the sky: 
This cap to my cousin I owe, 

She gave it, and gave me beside, 
Wreath'd into an elegant bow, 

The riband with which it is tied. 

This wheel-footed studying chair, 

Contrived both for toil and repose, 
Wide-elbow 'd, and wadaed with hair. 

In which I both scribble and doze, 
Bright-studded to dazzle the eyes. 

And rival in lustre of that 
In which, or astronomy lies, 

Fair Cassiopeia sat : 



74 

These carpets, so soft to the foot, 

(laletlotiia's traffick and pride, 
Oh spare them, ye knights of tlie boot, 

Escaped IVom a cross-country ride \ 
This table and mirroiir within, 

Secure from collision and dust, 
A.t wiiich I oft shave cheek and chin, 

And periwig nicely adjust -. 

This moveable structure of shelves, 

For its beauty admired and its use, 
And charged with octavos and twelves^ 

The gayest I had to produce ; 
Where, flaming in scarlet and gold^ 

Ml) poems enchanted I view. 
And iiope, in due time, to behold 

My Iliad and Odyssey too : 

This china, that decks the alcove. 

Which here people call a buffet, 
But what the gods call it above, 

Has ne'er been reveal'd to us yet : 
These curtains, tliat keep the room warm 

Or cooi, as the season demands, 
Tho;!e stoves that for pattern and foira, 

Seem the labour of Mulciber's hands : 



75 

All these are not half that I owe 

To ' )nes from our earliest youth 
To me ever ready to show 

Beniguity, friendship, and tnith j 
For tiiue, the destroyer declar'd 

And foe of our perishing khid, 
If even tier face lie has spar'd, 

Much less could he alter her mind. 

Thus compass'd about with the goods 

And chattels of leisure and ease, 
I indulge my poetical moods 

In many such fancies as these ; 
And fancies 1 fear they will seem — 

Poets' goods are not often so fine j 
The poets wiil swear that I dream, 

When 1 sing of the splendour of mine. 



THE FLATTING-MILL. 



AS ILLUSr;:AT10N. 

When a bar of pure s'lver or ingot of gold 
Is sent to he flatted or wrought into leigth. 
It is pass'd between cylinders often, iind roU'd 
III an engine of utmost mechanical strength. 



76 



Thus tortur'd and squeezed, at last it appears 
Like a loose heap of riband, a glitteriog siiow, 
Likp musick it tinkles and rings in your ears, 
And w.irm'd by the pressure is all in a glow. 

This process achieved, it is dooin'd to sustain 
The thump-after-thump of a goid-beater's mallet, 
And at last is of service in sickness or pain 
To cover a pill from a delicate palate. 

Alas for the Poet ! who dares undertake 

To urge reformation of natioual ill — 

His head and his heart are both likely to ache 

With the double employment of mallet and mil). 

If he wish to instruct, he must learn to delight, 
Smooth, ductile, and even, his fancy must flow, 
Must tinkle and glitter like gold to the sight, 
And catch in its progress a sensible glow. 

After all he must beat it as thin and as fine 
As the leaf that enfolds what an invalid swallows, 
For truth is unwelcome, however divine. 
And unless you adorn it, a nausea follows. 



LINES, 

COMPOSED FOR A MEMORIAL OF 

ASHLEY COWPER, ESQ. 

IMMEDIATELY AFT£R H113 DEATH, 
BY 

HIS NEPHEW WILl .lAM OF WESTOJV. 

[June 1788] 

Farewell ! endued with all that could eng;age 
All hearts to love tliee, both in youth and age ! 
In prime of life, for sprigluliness enroll'd 
Among the gay, yet virtuous as the old ; 
In life's last stage — i) blessings rarely found — 
Pleasant as youth with all its blossoms ciown'd ; 
I'hrough every period of this changeful state 
Uuchang'd thyself — wise, good, affectionate ! 

Marble may flatteik; and lest this should seem 
O'ercharg'd with piaises on so dear a theme. 
Although thy worth be more than half supprest, 
Love shall be satisfied, and veil the rest. 

7# 



78 



QUEEN'S VISIT TO LONDON, 

THE NIGHT OF THE 17tH MARCH, 1789. 

When, long secjuester'd from his throne 

George took his seat again, 
By right of worth, not blood alone, 

Entitled here to reign, 

V 

Then Loyalty, with all his lamps 
New trimm'd, a gallant show ! 

Chasing the darkness, and the damps, 
Set London in a glow, 

*rwas hard to tell, of streets or squares, 
Which form'd the chief display, 

These most resembling cluster'd stars, 
Those the long milky way. 

Bright shone the roofs, the domes, the spires, 

And rockets flf-w, self-driv'n, 
To hang their momentaiy fires 

Amid the vault of Heav'n. 



'9 



So, fire with water to compare, 
The ocean serves, on high 

Up-spouted by a whale in air, 
T' express unwieldy joy. 

Had all the pageants of the world 

In one procession join'd. 
And all the banners been unfurl'd 

That heralds e'er design'd, 

For no such sight had England's Queen 

Forsaken her retreat, 
Where, George recover'd made a scene 

Sweet always, doubly sweet. 

Yet glad she came that night to prove, 

A witness undescried, 
How much the object of her love 

Was lov'd by all beside. 

Darkness the skies had mantled o'er 

In aid of her design 

Darkness, O Queen ! ne'er call'd before 

To veil a deed of thine ! 

On borrow '<! wheels away she flies, 

Resolv'd to he unknown. 
And gr: tity no curious eyes 

That night, except her own. 



80 

Arriv'd, a night like noon she sees, 
And hears the million hum ; 

As all by instinct, like the bees, 

Had known their sov'reign come. 

Pleas'd she beheld aloft pourtrayM 
On many a splendid wall, 

Emblems of health, and heav'nly aid, 
And George the theme of all. 

Unlike the enigmatick line, 

So difficult to spell. 
Which shook Belshazzar at his wine, 

The night his city fell. 

Soon, wat'ry grew her eyes and dim, 

But with a joyful tear. 
None else, except in pray'r for him, 

George ever drew from her. 

It was a scene in ev'ry part 

Like those in fable feign'd. 
And seem'd by some magician's art 
Created and sustain'd. 

But other magick there, she knew, 
Had been exerted none. 

To raise such wonders in her view 
Save love of George alone. 



81 

That cordial thought her spirit cheer'd, 
And through the cumb'rous throng, 

Not else unworthy to be fear'd, 
Convey'd her calm along. 

So, ancient poets say, serene 

The sea-maid rides the waves, 

And fearless of the billowy scene 
Her peaceful bosom laves. 

With more than astronomick eyes 
She view'd the sparkling show j 

One Georgian star adorns liie skies, 
She myriads found below. 

Yet let the glories of a night 
Like that, once seen, suffice, 

Heav'n grant us no such future sight. 
Such previous wo the price ! 



82 

THB 

COCK-FIGHTER'S GARLAND. 

[May 1789.] 

Muse — Hide his name of whom T sing, 
Lest his surviving house thou bring 

For his sake, into scorn, 
Nor speak the School from which he drew 
The much or little that he knew. 

Nor Place where he was born. 

That such a man once was, may seem 
Worthy of record (if the theme 

Perchance may credit win) 
For proof to man, what Man may prove, 
If grace depart, and demon? move 

The source of guilt within. 

This man (for since t'le howling wild 
Disclaims Itim, Mm he must be stil'd) 

Wanted no good below, 
Gentle he was, if rentle birth 
Could make him Mich, and be had worth, 

If wealth can worth bestow. 



83 

In social talk and ready jest 
He sxione superiour at the feast, 

Aud qualities of mind 
Illustrious iu tlie eyes oi those 
Whose gay society he chose 

Po^sriss'd of ev'iy kind. 

Methinks i see him powder'd red, 
With bushy locks iiis well-dress'd head 

VVing'd broad on eitiiei side, 
The mossy ixise-bud not so sweet ; 
His steeds superb, his carriage neat 

As lux'ry could provide. 

Can such be cruel p— Such can be 
Cruel as hell, and so was he j 

A. tyrant entertain'd 
With barb'rous sports, whose fell delight 
Was to encourage mortal fight 

'Twixt birds to battle train'd. 

One feather'd champion he possess'd, 
His darling far beyond the rest, 

Which never knew disgrace, 
Nor e'er had fought, but He made flow 
The life blood of his fiercest foe, 

The Caesar of his race. 



84 

It chanced, at last, when, on a day, 
He push'd him to the desp'rale fray, 

His courage droop'd, he fled. 
The Master storm 'd, the prize was lost, 
And, instant, frantick at the cost, 

He doom'd his fav'rite dead. 

He seiz'd him fast, and from the pit 
Flew to his kitchen, snatch'd the spit, 

And, bring me cord, he cried — 
The cord was brought, and, at his word. 
To that dire implement the bird 

Alive and struggling, tied. 

The horrid sequel asks a veil, 
And all the terrours of the tale 

That can be, shall be, sunk — 
Led by the sufF'rer's screams aright 
His shock'd companions view the sight 

And him with fury drunk. 

All, suppliant, beg a milder fate 
For the old warriour at the grate : 

He deaf to pity's call 
Whirl'd round him rapid as a wheel 
His culinary club of steel. 

Death menacing on all. 

But vengeance hung not far remote. 
For while he stretch'd his clam'rous throat 
And heav'n and earth defied, 



85 

Big with a curse tbo closely pent 
That struggled vainly for a vent 
He toltci 'd, recl'd, and died. 

'Tis not for us, with rash suimise, 
To point ;he judgments of the sliies, 

J'/ut judgments plf.in as this, 
Thai, sent for Man's instruction, bring 
A written lahel on tlieir wing, 

♦Tis hard to read amiss. 



BENEFIT RECEIVED BY HIS MAJESTT 
FROM SEA-BATHING. 

IN THE YEAR 1789. 

O Sov'reign of an isle rencwn'd 

For undisputed sway 
Wherever o'er yon gulf profound 

Her navies wing their way, 
With jiister claim she builds at length 

Her empire on the sea, 
And well may boast the waves her strength 

Which strength restored to Thee. 



86 



HOR. LIB. I. ODE IX. 

Vides, ut a\vk stet nire candidum 
Soracte ; 

See'st thou yon mountain laden with deep snow. 
The groves beneath their fleecy burthen bow, 
The streams congeal'd forget to flow , 

Come, thaw the cold, and lay a cheerful pile 

Of fuel on the hearth ; 
Broach the best cask, and make old winter 
smile 
With seasonable mirth. 

This be our part — let Heaven dispose the rest ? 

If Jove command, the winds shall siee-p, 
That now wage war upon tlie foamy deep, 

And gentle gales spring from the balmy Wesf. 

E*en let us shift to-morrow as we may, 
When to-morrow's past away, 
We at least shall have to say. 
We have livM another day j 

Your auburn locks will soon be silver'd o'er, 
Old age is at our heels, and youth returns no more. 



87 
HOR. LIB. I. ODE 38. 

Persicos odi, puer, apparatus ; 

Boy, I hate their empty shows, 

Persiau garlands I detest, 
Bring not me tlie late-blown rose 

Ling'ring after ail the rest : 

Plainer myrtle pleases me 

Thus out-stretclied beneath my vine, 
Myrtle more becoming thee. 

Waiting with thy master's wine. 



English Sapphicks have been attempted, but 
with little success, because in our language we have 
no certain rules by which to determine the quantity. 
The following version was made merely in the way 
of experiment, how far it might be possible to imitate 
a Latin Sapphick in English, without any attention 
to that circumstance. 

HOR. B. I. ODE 38. 

Boy ! I detest all Persian fopperies. 
Fillet-bound garlands are to me di?o;usting, 
Task not thyself with any search, 1 charge thee. 
Where latest roses linger. 



88 



Bring me alone {for tlioii wilt find that readily) 
Plajn myrtle. Myrtle neither will disparage 
Thee occupied to serve uie, or me drinking 
Beneath my vine's cool shelter. 



HOR. LIB. II. ODE 16. 

Otium Divos rogat in patenti. 

Ease is the weary merchant's prty'r, 
Who plows by uiglit ta' vEgeiu tiood, 

When neither moon nor stars appear. 
Or faintly glimmer through the cloud. 

For ease the Mede with quiver graced," 
For ease the Thracian hero sighs, 

Deligfitiul ease all pant to taste, 
A blessing which no treasure buys. 

For neither gold can lull to rest, 
Nor all a Consul's guard beat off 

The tumults of a troubled breast, 
The cares that haunt a gilded roof. ■ 

Happy the man, whose table shows 
A few clean ounces of old plate ; 

No fear intrudes on his repo:. 
No sordid wishes to be great. 



S9 



Poor short-liv'd things, what plans we lay ! 

Ah, why forsake our native home ! 
To distant climates speed away ; 

For self sticks close where'er we roam. 

Care follows hard ; and soon o'ertakes 
Tiie well-rigg'd sliip, the warlike steed, 

Her destin'd quarry ne'er forsakes, 
Not the wind flies with half her speed. 

From anxious fears of future ill 
Guard well the cheerful, happy Now ; 

Gild ev'n your sorrows with a smile, 
No blessing is unmix'd below. 

Thy neighing steeds and lowing herds. 
Thy nura'rous flocks around thee graze, 

And tiie best purple Tyre affords 
Thy robe magnificent displays. 

On me indulgent Heav'n bestow 'd 
A rural m:insion, neat and small , 

This Lyre j— and as for yonder crowd, 
The happiness to hate them all. 



t-r 



90 



I make no apology for the introduction of ike 
folhmng lines, though I have never learned rvko 
ivrote them. Their elegance will sufficiently re- 
commend them to -persons of classical taste and eru- 
dition, and I shall be. happy if the English version 
that they have received from me, be found not to 
dishonour them. Affection for the memory of the 
rvorthy man whom they celebrate, alone prompted 
mt to this endeavour. W. CO WPER, 

VERSES 



MEMORY OP DR. LLOYD, 

6P0KEN AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION NEXT 
AFTER HIS DECEASE. 

ABiiTsenex! periit senex amabilis ! 

Quo non fuit jiicundior. 
Lugete vos, aetas quibus raatnrior 

Seneai colendum praestUit, 
Seu quaudo, viribus vaientioribus 

Firmoque fietus pectore, 
Florentiori vos jiiventute excolens 

Cura fovebat patria, 
Seu qiiando fractus, jamque donatiis rude, 



01 

V'alln sed usque lilandiilo, 
Miscere giaudeb-it sua? facetias 

His annuls leporihu?. 
Vixit probu?, puraquc simplex indoip, 

Bhndi^que com is moribus, 
Et dives eequa mente — charus omnibus, 

Uniu>;* auctus munere. 
Itetitnli I mentis beatioribtis 

Aptate landes debitas ! 
Nee invidcbat ille, si quibus favens 

Fortun;i plus arriserat. 
J'iaelde acnex ! . levi quiescas cespite, 

Etsi s-uperbum nee vivo tibi 
Denis sit. inditura, nee mortuo 

Lapis notatus nomine. 

THE SAME IN ENGLISH. 

OtJR good old friend is gone, gone to bis rest, 
Whose social converse was, itself, a feast. 
O ye of riper age, who recollect 
How once ye loved, and eyed him with respect, 
Bo" h in the firmness of his better dry. 
While yet he ruled you with a father's sway. 
And when, impair'd by time and glad to rest. 
Yet still with looks in mild complacence drest, 
He took bis annual seat and nu'ngled here 
His sprightly vein with yours— now drop a tear. 

* He was nsher and under-master of Westminster near 
fifty years, and retirtd from his occupatiou v.her, lie was 
near seventy, with a handsome ijensiotJ from the King. 



92 



In morals blameless as in manners meek 
He knew no wish that he might blush to speak, 
But, happy in whulever state below, 
And richer than the rich in being so, 
Obtain'd the hearts oC all, and such a meei 
At length from One,^ as made iiim rich indeed. 
Hence, then, ye titles, hence, noi w nied here, 
Go, garnish merit in a brghter sphere, 
The brows of those whose more exaitei lot 
He could congratulate, but envied not. 

Light lie the turf, good Seuior ! on thy breast, 
And tranquil as tiiy mind was, be thy rest ! 
Tho', living, thou hadst more desert than fame 
And not a stone, now, chronicles thy name. 

* See the note in the Latin copy. 



TO MRS. THROCKMORTON, 

ON 

HEK KEAUTIFUL TKANSCRIPT OK HORACE'S ODK, 

AD LIBRUM SUUM. 

[February 1790.] 

Maria, could Horace !iave gtiess'd 
What honour awaited his oie 



93 



To his own little volume address'd, 
Tlie honour which you have bestow'd, 

Who have traced it in characters here 
So elegant, even and neat, 

He had laugh'd at the criiical sneer 

Which he seems to have trembled to meet, 

And sneer if you please, he had said, 

A uyraph shall hereafter arise 
Who shall give me, when you are all dead, 

The glory your malice denies, 
Shall dignity give to my lay, 

Although but a mere bagatelle ; 
And even a poet shall say, 

Nothing ever was written so well. 



INSCRIPTION 

For a Stone erected at the Sowing of a Grove of Oaks at 
Chillingtou, the Seat of T. Giffard,Esq. 1790. 

[June 1790.] 

Other stones t!ie era tell, 
Whtn some feeble moi tal fell ; 
f stand t'.ere io date the birth 
Of these hardy sons of Earth. 



94 

Which shall longest brave the sky, 
Storm and frost— these oaks or I ? 
Pass an age or two away, 
I must moulder and decay, 
But the years that crumble me 
Shall invigorate the tree, 
Spread its brauch, dilate its size, 
Lilt its summit to the skies. 

Cherish honour, virtue, truth, 
So shall thou prolong thy youth. 
Wanting these, however fast 
Man be fixt, and forra'd to last, 
He is lifeless even now. 
Stone at heart, and cannot grow. 



ANOTHER, 

Kor a Stone erected on a similar occasion at the saiiic 
place in the Ibhovvju^ year. 

[June 1790.] 

Reader ! Behold a monument 

Tiiat asks no sigh or tear, 
Though it perpetuate the event 

Of a great burial here. 

Anno 1791. 



Qo 



HYMN 

KOn THE USE OF THE 

SUNDAY SCHOOL AT OLNEY 

[July 17C0.] 

Hear, Lord, the song of praise and pray V, 

In heaven thy dwelling-place, 
From infants made the publick care 

And taught to seek thy face ! 

Thanks for thy Word and for thy Day; 

And grant us, we implore, 
Never to waste in sinful play 

Thy holy Sabbaths more. 

Thanks that we hear— but oh impart 

To each desires sincere, 
That we may listen with our heart. 

And learn as well as hear. 

For if vain thoughts the minds engage 

or elder far than we. 
What hope that at our heedless age 

Our minds should e'er be free ? 



96 

Much hope, if thou our spirits take 

Under thy gracious swv.y, 
Who canst the wisest wiser make, 

And Babes as wise as they. 

Wisdom and bliss thy word bestows, 

A sun that ne'er declines ; 
And be thy mercies show'r'don those 

Who placed us where it shines.* 



STANZAS 

On the late indecent Liberties taken with the Remains of 
the gi^eat Milton,— Anuo 1790, 

[August 17rO.J 

"Me too, perchance, in future days, 

" The sculptured stone shall show, 
"With Paphian myrtle or with bays 

" Parnassian on my brow. 

• Note by the Editor. This Hymn was written at the 
request of the Rev. James Bean, then Vicar of Olney, 
to be siiiig by the chiUlreii of the Sunday Schools oi '.Imt 
town, after a Charity Sermon, prcache*! at the Parish 
Church for their benefit, on Siuiday, July 31, 1790. 



97 

" But I, or ere that season come, 

" Escaped from ev'ry care, 
*• Shall reach ray ret'u^iie in the tomb, 

" And sleep securely there."* 

Ho sang, in Roman tone and style, 
The youthful bard, ere long 

Ordained to grace his native isle 
With her subliinest song. 

Who then but must conceive disdain 

Hearing the deed unbiest 
Of wretches who have dar'd profane 

His dread sepulcliral rest i^ 

111 fare the hands that heaved the stones 

Where Milton's ashes lay, 
That trembled not to grasp his bones 

And steal his dust away ! 

O ill-requited bard ! neg'ect 

Thy living wortn repaid, 
And blind idolatrous respect 

As much affronts thee dead. 



• Forsltan et nostros ducat de mai'more rultus 
Necteusaut Paphia myrti aut Pan;asside lauri 
Fronde comas— At ego secura pace quiescam. 

Milton in MiNS©. 



98 



TO MRS. KINO 



Heir kind Present to the Author, a Patch-work Counter- 
pane of ha' own making. 

[August 14, 1790.] 

The Bard, if e'er he feel at all, 
Must sure be quick en'd by a call 

Both on his heart and head, 
To pay with tuneful thanks the care 
And kindness of a Lady fair 

Who deigns to deck his bed. 

A bed like this, in ancient time. 
On Ida's barren top sublime, 

(As Homer's Epick shows) 
Composed of sweetest vernal flow'rs, 
Without the aid of sun or show'rs 

For Jove and Juno rose. 

Less beautiful, however gay*, 

Is that which in the scorching day 

Receives the weary swain 
Who, laying his long sithe aside, 
Sleeps on some bank with daisies pied 

'Till roused to toil again. 



99 

What labours of the loom I see ! 
Looms numberless have groan'd for me ! 

Should every maiden come 
To scramble for the patch that bears 
The impress of the robe she wears, 

The Bell would toll for some. 

And oh, what havock would ensue ! 
This bright display of ev'ry hue 

All in a moment fled ! 
As if a storm should strip the how*rs 
Of all their tendrils, leaves, and flow'rs— 

Each pocketing a shred. 

Thanks, then, to ev'ry gentle Fair 
Who will not come to peck me bare 

As bird of borrow'd feather, 
And thanks, to One, above them all, 
The gentle Fair of Fertenhall . 

Who put the whole together. 



100 



[October 1790.] 

* Certain potters, while they were buiied in baldiif: 
their waiv, seeing Homer at a small distance, aiid haring 
heard much said of Ins Avisdom, called to him, uid pro- 
mised him a present of their commodity and of snch other 
things as they could afford, if he would sing to them, 
when he sang as follows : 

Pay me my price, Potters ! and I will sing, 
Attend, O Pallas? and with lifted arm 
Protect their oven ; let the cups and all 
The sacred vessels blacken well, and hiked 
With good success, yield them both fair renown 
And profit, whether in the market sold 
Or street, and let no strife ensue between us. 
But, oh ye Potters ! if with shameless front 
Ye falsify your promise, then 1 leave 
No mischief uniuvok'd t' avenge the wrong. 
Come Syutrips, Smaragus, Sahactes come, 
And Asbetus, ncr let your direst dread 
Oinodamus, delay ! Fire seize your house, 
May neither house nor vestibule escape, 

* Note hij the Editor .—No Title is prefixed to thi» 
piece ; but it appears to be a traiislation of one of the 
'p.7riyg-tf/fj.tT;\ of Homer called 'O Kst^t/vof, or The 
Furnace. T!ie prefatory Hues are ft-om the Greek of 
Herodotus, or whoever was the Author of the life of 
Homer ascribed to him. 



101 

May ye lament to see confusion mar 

And mini^le the whole bbour of your hands, 

And may a sound fill all your oven, such 

As of a horse grinding; his provender, 

While all your pots and flagons bounce within. 

Come hither also, daughter of the sun, 

Circe the Sorceress, and with thy drugs 

Poison themselves, and all that they have made ! 

Come also Chiron, with thy nura'rous troop 

Of Centaurs, as well those who died beneath 

The club of Hercules, as .wl\o. escaped. 

And stamp their crockery to dust ; down fall 

Their Chimney ; let tliem see jt with their eyes 

And howl to see the ruin of their art, 

While I rejoice ; and if a potter stoop 

To peep into his furnace, may the tire 

Flash in his face and scorch it, that all men 

Observe, thenceforth, equity and good faith. 



IN MEMORY 



OF THE I,ATE 

JOHN THORNTON, ESQ. 

[iVovember 1790.] 

Poets attempt the noblest task they can, 
Praising tlie Author of all good in man, 
9 ^ 



102 

And, next, commemorating Worthies lost, 
The Dead in whom that good abounded most. 

Thee, therefore, of commercial fame, but more 
Famed for thy probity from shore to shore. 
Thee, Thornton ! worthy in some page to shine, 
As honest, and more eloquent than mine, 
I mourn ; or, since thrice happy thou must be, 
The world, no longer thy abode, not thee. 
Thee to deplore, were grief raispent indeed ; 
It were to weep that goodness has its meed, 
I'hat there is bliss prepared in yonder sky, 
And glory for the virtuous, when they die. 

What pleasure can the miser's fondled hoard, 
Or spendthrift's prodigal excess aiJbrd, 
Sweet as the privilege of healing wo 
By virtue sufFer'd combating below ? 
That privilege was thine; Heav'n gave thee 

means 
T' illumine with delight the saddest scenes, 
Till thy appearance chased the gloom, forlorn 
As midnight, and despairing of a morn. 
Thou hadst an industry in doing good. 
Restless as his who toils and sweats for food ; 
Av'rice, in thee, was the desire of wealth 
By rust unperishable or by stealth, 
And if the genuine worth of gold depend 
On application to its noblest end, 
Thine had a value in the scales of Heav'n, 
Surpassing all that mine or mint had giv'a. 



103 

And, tho' God made thee of a nalurd prone 

To diptribution boundless of thy own, 

And still by motives of religious force 

Inipell'd thee more to that heroick course, 

Yet was thy liberality disctrect, 

Nice in its choice, and of a temper'd heat, 

And though in act unwearied, secret still, 

As in some solitude the summer rill 

Refreshes, where it winds, the faded green. 

And cheers the drooping flowers, unheard, unseen. 

Such was thy Charity ; no sudden start, 
After long sleep, of passion in the heart, 
But steadfast principle, and, in iits kind. 
Of close relation to th' eternal mind, 
Traced easily to its true source above, 
To Him, whose works bespeak his nature. Love. 

Thy bounties all were Christian, and 1 make 
This record of thee for tiie Gospel's sake; 
That the incredulous tlieiuselves may see 
Its use and pow'r exemplified in Thee. 



104 



THE FOUR AGES, 

(a brief fragment of an extensive projected 

POEM.) 

[May 1791.] 

" I COULD be well content, allow'd the use 
" Of past experience, and the wisdom glean'd 
" From worn-out follies, now ackiiowledg'd such, 
" To recommence life's trial, in the hope 
" Of fewer errours, on a second proof !" 

Thus, while gray evening lull'd the wind, and 
call'd 
Fresh odours from the shrubb'ry at my side, 
Taking ray lonely winding walk, I mus'd, 
And held accustom'd conference with my heart ; 
When, from within it, thus a voice replied. 

" Couldst thou in truth ? and art thou taught 
at length 
" This wisdom, and but this, from all the past ? 
" Is not the pardon of thy long arrear, 
" Time wasted, violated laws, abuse 
" Of talents, judgments, mercies, better far 
" Than opportunity vouchsaf 'd to err 
"' With less excuse, and haply, worse eflFect .^" 



.105 

1 heard, and acquie>c'd : then to and fro 
Oft pacing, as the mariner his deck, 
My g:rav']ly bounds, from self to human kiud 
I pass'd, and next considei'd what is Man ? 

Knows he his origin ? can he ascend 
By lemiuiscence to his earliest date ? 
Slept h;- in Adam ? and in those from him 
Through num'rous generations, till he found 
At length his destin'd moment to be born ? 
Or was he not, till fashion'd in the womb ? 
Deep myst'ries both ! which schoolmen much have 

, toil'd 
To unriddle, and have left them myst'ries still. 

It is an evil incident to man, 
And of the worst, that unexplor'd he leaves 
Truths useful and attainable with ease, 
To search forbidden deeps, where myst'ry lies 
Not to be solv'd. and useless, if it might. 
Myst'ries are food for angels ; they digest 
With ease, and find them nutriment; but man, 
While yet he dwells below, must stoop to glean 
His manna from the ground, or starve, and die. 



IOC 



JUDGMENT OF THE POETS. 

[May 1791.] 

Two nyraphs, both nearly of an age, 
Of mini'rous charms posses^'d, 

A warm dispute once chanced to wage. 
Whose temper was the best. 

The worth of each had been complete, 

Had both alike beeij mild : 
But one r.ltliouffh her smile was sweet, 

Frown'd oft'ner than she smiled. 

And in fier humour, when she frown'd 
Would raise her voice and roar, 

And shake 'fith fury to the ground 
The garland that she wore. 

Tiip other was of gentler cast, 

From all such phrensy clear. 
Her frowns were seldom known to la»t, 

And never proved severe. 



107 

To poets of renown in song 

The nymphs referr'd the cause, 

Who, strange to tell, all judg'd it wrong, 
And gave misplaced applause. 

They gentle call'd, and kind and soft, 
The flippant and the scold. 

And though she changed her mood so oft, 
That failing left untold. 

No judges, sure, were e'er so mad, 

Or so resolv'd to err — 
In short, the charms her sister had 

They lavishM all on her. 

Then thus the God whom fondly they 

Their great Inspirer call, 
Was heard, one genir.l summer's day. 

To reprimand them all. 

" Since thus ye have combined," lie said, 
" My fav'rite nymph to slight, 

" Adorning May, that peevish maid, 
" With June's undoubted right, 

" The Minx shall, for your folly's sake, 
T^ *' Still prove herself h shrew, 
" Shall make your scribbling fingers ache, 
*' And pinch your noses blue." 



TRANSLATION? 

OF THE 

LATIN AND ITALIAN POEMS 

OF 

MILTON. 

^Begun Septexaber'17Q7. Finished March 1792.] 

f 

10 



TRANSLATIONS 

OF 

THE LATIN POEMS, 

&c. &c. 

ELEGIES. 

ELEGY L 

TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

At length, my friend, the far sent letters come, 
Charged with thy kindness, to vheir destin'd home, 
They come, at length, from Deva's AVestern side, 
Where prone she seeks tiie salt Vergivian tide. 
Trust me, my joy is great that thou shouldst be, 
Though born of foreign race, yet born for me, 
And that ray sprightly friend, now free to roam, 
jMust seek again so soon his wonted home. 
I well content, where Thames with refluent tide 
My native city laves, meantime reside. 
Nor zeal nor duty, now, my steps impel 
To reedy Cam, and my forbidden cell. 



112 

Nor aught of pleasure In those fields have I, 
That, to the musing bard, all shade deny. 
'Tis time, that I, a pedant's threats disdain, 
And fly from wrongs, my soul will ne'er sustaiH. 
If peaceful days, in letter'd leisure spent. 
Beneath my father's roof, be banisliment. 
Then call me banish'd, I will ne'er refuse 
A name expressive of the lot I choose. 
I would, that, exiled to the Pontick shore, 
Rome's hapless bard had sufFer'd nothing more. 
He then had equall'd even Homer's lays, 
And Virgil ! thou hadst won but second praise : 
For here I woo the muse ; with no control, 
And here my books— my life— absorb me whole. 
Here too I visit, or to smile, or weep. 
The winding theatre's majestick sweep ; 
Tlie grave or gay colloquial scene recruits 
My spirits, spent in learning's long pursuits ; 
Whether some senior shrewd, or spendthrift heir, 
Suitor, or soldier, now unarm'd, be there, 
Or some coif'd brooder o'er a ten years' cause. 
Thunder the Norman gibb'rish of the laws. 
The lacquey, tliere, oft dupes the wary sire, 
And, artful, speeds th' enamour'd son's desire. 
There, virgins oft, unconscious what they prove, 
What love is, knoff not, yet unknowing, love. 
Or, if iinpassion'd Tragedy wield high 
The bloody sceptre, give her locks to fly 
AVild as the winds, and roll her haggard eye, 
I gaze, and grieve, still cherishing my grief, 
At times, e'en bitter tears ! yield swcet relief. 



113 

As when from bliss untasted torn away, 

Some youth dies, hapless, on his bridal day, 

Or when the ghost, sent back from shades below, 

Fills the assassin's heart with vengeful wo, 

When Troy, or \rgos, the dire scene affords, 

Or Creon's hall laments its guilty lords. 

IVor always city-pent, or pent at home, 

I dwell ; but, when spring calls nie forth to roam. 

Expatiate in our proud suburban shades 

Of branching elm, that never sun pervades. 

Here many a virgin troop 1 may descry, 

Like stars of mildest influence, gliding by. 

Oh forms divine ! Oh looks that might inspire 

E'en Jove himself, grown old, with young desire ! 

Oft have I gazed on gem surpassing eyes. 

Out-sparkling every star, that gilds the skies. 

Necks whiter than the ivory arm bestowed 

By Jove on Pelops, or the milky road i 

Bright locks, Love's golden snare i tliese falling 

low. 
Those playing wanton o'er the graceful brow ! 
Cheeks too, more winning sweet than after show'r 
Adonis turn'd to Flora's fav'rite flower ! 
Yield, iieroines, yield, and ye who shar'd th' en> 

brace 
Of Jupiter in ancient times, give place ! 
Give place, ye turbann'd fair of Persia's coast ! 
And ye, not less renown'd, Assyria's boast ! 
Submit, ye nymphs of Gi-eece ! ye, once the bloom 
Of JlioD ! and all ye, of haughty Rome, 

10 # 



114 

Who swept, of old, her theatres with trains 
Redundant, and still live in classick strains ! 
To British damsels beauty's palm js due, 
Aliens ! to follow them is fame for you. 
Oh city, founded by Dardanian hands, 
A^liose towering front the circling realm commauds. 
Too blest abode ! no loveliness we see 
In all the earth, but it abounds in thee. 
The virgin multitude that daily meets, 
Radiant with gold and beauty, in thy streets, 
Out numbers all her train of starry fires, 
"With which Diana gilds thy lofty spires. 
Fame says, that wafted hither by her doves, 
With all her host of quiver-bearing loves, 
Venus, preferring Papliian scenes no more. 
Has fix'd her empire on thy nobler shore. 
But lest the sightless boy inforce my stay, 
I leave these happy walls, while yet I may. 
immortal Moly shall secure my heart 
From all the sorc'ry of Circaean art, 
And 1 will eVn repass Cam's reedy pools 
To face once more the warfare of the schools. 
Meantime accept this trifle ! rhimes though few, 
Yet such, as prove thy friend's remembrance true !" 



lU 



ELEGY U. 



BEATH OP THE UNIVERSITY EEADLK 
AT CAMBRIDGE. 

Copiposed by Milton in the 17th year of his age. 

Thee, whose refulgent staff, and summons clear, 
Minerva's flock long time was want t' obey. 

Although thyself an herald, famous here, 

The last of heralds, Death, has snatch'd awa,v. 

He calls on all alike, nor even deigns 

To spare the office, that himself sustains. 

Thy locks were whiter than the plumes display'd 
By Leda's paramour in ancient time, 

But thou wast worthy ne'er to have decay'd. 
Or iEson-like to know a second prime. 

Worthy, for whom some goddess should have won 

New life, oft kneeling to Apollo's son. 

Commjssion'd to convene, with hasty call, 

The gowned tribes, how graceful wouldst thou 
stand ! 

So stood Cyllenius erst in Priam's hall, 
Wing-footed messenger of Jove's command •! 

And so Eurybates, when he address'd 

ToPeleus' sod, Atrides' proud behest 



116 

Dread queen of sepulchres ! whose rig'rous laws 
And watchful eyes, run through the . realms 
below, 
Oh oft too adverse to Minerva's cause ! 
Too often to the mase not less a foe ! 
Choose meaner marks, and with more equal aim 
Pierce useless drones, earth's burthen, and its 
shame ! 

Flow, therefore, tears for him, from ev'iy eye, 
All ye disciples of the muses, weep ! 

Assembling, all, in robes of sable dye, 
Around his bier, lament his endless sleep ! 

And let complaining elegy rehearse, 

la every school, her sweetest, saddest verse. 



117 



ELEGY III. 
ON THE DEATH 

OF THE 

BISHOP OF WINCHESTER. 

Composed in the Author's 17th year. 

Silent I sat, dejected, and aloue, 

Making, in thought, the publick woes my own, 

When, first, arose the image in ray breast 

Of England's suffering by that scourge, the Pest ! 

How death, his fun'ral torch and sithe in hand, 

Entering the lordliest mansions of the land, 

Has laid the gem-illumin'd palace low, 

And levell'd tribes of nobles, at a blow. 

I, next, deplor'd the fam'd paternal pair, 

Too soon to ashes turn'd and empty air ! 

The heroes next, whom snatch'd into the skies. 

All Belgia saw, and followed with her sighs, 

But thee far most I mourn'd, regretted most, 

VV^intou's chief shepherd, and her worthiest boast I 

Pour'd out in tears I thus complaining said : 

" Death, next in pow'r to him, who rules the dead f 

Is't not enough that all the woodlands yield 

To thy fell force, and ev'ry verdant field, 



118 

That lilies, at one noisome blast of thine, 
And ev'n the Cyprian queen's own roses, pine, 
That oaks^ themselves, although the running rill 
Suckle their roots, must wither at thy will, 
That all the winied nations, even those. 
Whose heav'n directed flight the future shows, 
And all the beasts, that in dark forests stray, 
And al! the herds of Proteus are thy prey. 
Ah envious ! arm'd with pow'rs so unconfin'd ! 
W'hj' stain thy hands witli blood of human kind ? 
Why take delight, with darts, that never roam, 
To chase a heav'n-born spirit from her home ?" 

While thus I mournM, the star of evening stood. 
Now newly risen above the western flood, 
And Phoebus from his morning-goal again 
Had reach'd tlie gulfs of the Iberian main. 
1 wish'd repose, and, on my couch reclin'd. 
Took early rest, to night and sleep resign'd : 
When — Oh for words to paint what 1 beheld ! 
I seem'd to wander in a spaciots field, 
Where all the champaign glow'd with purple light 
Like that of sun-rise on the mountain height ; 
Flow'rs over all the field, of ev'ry hue 
That ever Iris wore, luxuriant grew. 
Nor Chloris, with whom am'rous Zephyrs play, 
E'er dress'd Alcinous* garden half so gay. 
A silver current, like the Tagus, rolPd 
O'er ?;olden sands, but sands of purer gold. 
With dewy airs Favonius fanu'd the flowers, 
With airs awaken'd under rosy bowers. 



119 

Such, poets feign, irradiated all o'er 
The sun's abode oa India's utmost shore. 

While I, that splendour, and the mingled shade- 
Of fruitful vines, with wonder flxt survey'd, 
At once, with looks, that beam'd celestial grace. 
The seer of Winton stood before my face. 
His snowy vesture's hem descending low 
His golden sandals swept, and pure as snow 
Nevi fallen shone the mitre on his brow. 
Where'er he trod a tremulous sweet sound 
Of gladness shook the flow'ry scene around ; 
Attendant angels clap their starry wings, 
The trumpet shakes the sky, all ether rings, 
Each chaunts his welcome, folds him to his breast. 
And thus a sweeter voice than all the rest : 
" Ascend, my son ! thy father's kingdom share ! 
My son ! henceforth be freed from ev'ry care !'* 

So spake the voice, and at its tender close 
With psaltry's sound th' angelick band arose. 
Then night retired, and chas'd by dawning day 
The visionary bliss pass'd all away. 
I mourn'd my banish'd sleep, with fond concern ^ 
Frequent to me may dreams like this return ! 



120 



ELEGY IV. 

TO HIS TUTOR, 

THOMAS YOUNG, 

CHAPLAIN TO THE ENGLISH FACTORT AT HAM- 
BURGH. 

"Written in the Author's 18th year. 

Henck my epistle— skim the deep — fly o'er 
Yon smootii expanse to the Teutonick shore ! 
Haste — lest a friend should giieve for thy delay — 
And the Gods grant, that nothing thwart thy way ! 
I will myself invoke the king, who binds, 
In his Sicaniau echoing vault, the winds, 
With Doris and her nymphs, and all the throng 
Of azure gods, to speed thee safe along. 
But rather, to insure thy happier haste. 
Ascend Medea's chariot, if thou niay'st ; 
Or that, whence young Triptolemus of yore 
Descended, welcome on the Scythian shore. 
The sands, that line the German coast, descried, 
To opulent Hamburgha turn aside ! 
So called, if legendary fame be true. 
From Hama, whom a club-arm'd Cimbrian slew ! 
There lives, deep learn'd and primitively just, 
A faithful steward of his Christian trust, 



121 

My IViendj and favourite inmate of ray heart, 
That now is forced to want its better part ! 
Whiit iriountain? now, and seas, aLis ! liow wide ! 
From me this other, dearer self divide, 
Dear, as the sage renown'd for moral truth 
To the prime spirit of the attick youth ! 
Dear, as the Stagyrite to Ammon's son, 
His pupil, who disdain'd the world he won ! 
Nor so did Chiron, or so Plicenix shine 
In young Achilles' eyes, as he in mine. 
First led by him thro' sweet Aonian shade 
Each sacred hannt of Pindus I survey'd ; 
And favour'd by tlie muse, whom I implor'd, 
Thrice on my lip the hallow 'd stieam 1 pour'd. 
But thrice the sun's resplendent chariot roll'd 
To Aries, has new ting'd his fleece with gold, 
And Chloris twice has dress'd the meadows gay, 
And twice has summer parch'd their bloom away. 
Since last delighted on his looks I hung. 
Or my ear drank the musick of his toSgue : 
Fly, therefore, and surpass the tempest's speed ; 
Aware thyself, that, there is urgent need ! 
Him, entering, thou shalt haply seated see 
Beside his spouse, his infants on his knee. 
Or turning, page by page, with studious look, 
Some bulky father, or God's holy book. 
Or mmist'ring (wliieh is his weightiest care) 
To Christ's assembled flock their heavenly fare. 
Give him, whatever his employment be. 
Such gratulation, ns he claim.s from me ! 

H 



J22 

And, with a down-cast eye, and carriage meek, 
Addressing him, forget not thus to speak ! 

" If, compass'd ronnd with arms thou canst at- 
tend 
To verse, verse greets thee from a distant friend.. 
Long due, and late, I left the English shore j 
But make me welcome for that cause the more ! 
Such from Ulysses, his chaste wife to cheer, 
The slow epistle came, tho' late, sincere. 
But wherefore, this p why palliate I the deed, 
For which the culprit's self could hardly plead ? 
Self-charged, and self-condemn'd, his proper part 
He feels neglected, with an aching heart ; 
But thou forgive — delinquents, who confess, 
And pray forgiveness, merit anger less ; 
From timid foes the lion turns away, 
Nor yawns upon or rends '^ crouching prey, 
Even pike^ieldlng Thracians learn to spare, 
Won bj^ sou influence of a suppliant prayer ; 
And heav'n's dread thunderbolt arrested stands 
By a cheap victim, and uplifted hands. 
Long had he wish'd to write, but was with-heldj 
And, writes at last, by love alone compell'd, 
For fame, too often true, when she alarms. 
Reports thy neighbouring-fields a scene of arras ;■ 
Thy city against fierce besiegers barr'd. 
And all the Saxon chiefs for fight prepared. 
Enyo wastes thy country wide around, 
And saturates with blood the taiated ground : 



123 

Mars rests contented in his Thrace no moie, 
But goads his steeds to fields of German gore. 
The ever verdant olive fades and dies, 
And peace, the trumpet-haling goddess, flies, 
Flies from that earth which justice long had left^ 
And leaves the world of its last guard bereft. 

Thus horrour girds thee round. Meantime 
alone 
Thou dwell'st, and helpless in a soil unknown j 
Poor, and receiving from a foreign hand 
The aid denied thee in thy native land. 
Oh, ruthless country, and unfeeling more 
Than thy own billow beaten chalky shore ! 
Leav'st thou to foreign care the worthies, given 
By providence, to guide thy steps to Heav'n ? 
His ministers, commissioned to proclaim 
Eternal blessings in a Saviour's name ! 
Ah then most worthy, with a soul unfed, 
In Stygian night to lie for ever dead 
So once the venerable Tishbite stray 'd 
An exil'd fugitive from shade to shade, 
When, flying Ahab, and his fury wife, 
In lone Arabian wilds, he shelter 'd life j 
■*" Vrom Philippi, wander'd forth forlorn 
ician Paul, with sounding scourges torn ; 
«id Christ himself, so left, and trod no more, 
The thankless Gergesene's forbidden shore. 

But thou take courage ! strive against despair ! 
Quake not with dread, nor nourish anxious care 1 



124 

(Jrira war indeed on every side appears, 
And thou art nienae'd by a thousmJ spears, 
Vet none shall di-ink t'ly blood., or shall offend 
Ev'n the defenceless bosom of my friend. 
For thee the Mgis of thy God sh>ill hide, 
Jehovah's self shall combat on thy side. 
The same, who vanquished under Sion's tow'rs 
At silent midnight, al! Assyria's pow'rs, 
The same, who overthrew in ages past, 
Damascus' sons that lay'd Samaria waste ! 
Their king he tiil'd and them with fatal fears 
By mimick sounds of clarions in their ears, 
Of hoofs, and w heels, and neighings from afar, 
Of clashing armour, and the din of war. 

Thou, therefore, (as the most afflicted may) 
Still hope, and triumph, o'er thy evil ,i;'y ! 
Look fo.'-th. expi'Cting happier times to come, 
And to enjoy, once more, thy native hoqie ! 



126 
ELEGY V. 

ON THE 

APPROACH OF SPRING. 

Written in the Author's 20th year. 

Time, never wand'ring from his annual round, 
Bids Zephyr breathe the spring, and thaw the 

ground ; 
Blesik winter flies, new verdure clothes the plain, 
And earth assumes her transient youth again. 
Dream I, or also to the spring belong 
Increase of genius, and new powers of song. '' 
Spring gives them, and, how strange soe'erit seems, 
Impels me now to some harmonious themes. 
Castalia's fountain, and the forked hill 
By day, by night, my raptur'd fancy fill j 
My bosom burns and heaves, I iiear within 
A sacred sound, tliat prompts me to begin. 
Lo ! Phoebus comes, with his bright hair he blends 
The radiant Laurel wreath ; Phoebus descends; . 
I mount, and, undepressed by cumb'rous clay, 
Through cloudy regions win my easy way ; 
Rapt through Poetick shadowy haunts 1 fly : 
The shrines all open to my dauntless eye, 
My spirit searches all the realms of light, 
And no Tartarean gulfs elude mv sight. 
11 * 



126 

But this ecstatick trance — this glorious storm 

Of inspiration— what it will perform P 

Spring claims the verse, that with his influence 

glows, 
And shall be paid with what himself bestows. 

Thou,, veil'd with op'ning foliage, lead'st the 
throng 
Of feather'd minstrels, Philomel ! in song j 
Let us, in concert, to the season sing, 
Civick, and sylvan heralds of the spring ! 

With notes triumphant spring's approach de- 
clare ! 
To spring, ye Muses, annual tribute bear ! 
The Orient left, and ^Ethiopia's plains, 
The Sun now northward turns his golden reins ; 
Niglit creeps not now ; yet rules with gentlesway ; 
And drives her dusky horrours swift away; 
IVow less fatigued, on this etherial plain 
Bootes follows his celestial wain ; 
And now the radiant sentinels above. 
Less uum'rous, watch around the courts of Jove, 
For, with the night, force, ambu?h, slaughter fly. 
And no gigantick guilt alarms the sky. 
j\ow haply says some shepherd, while he view.?, 
Recumbent on a rock, the redd'ningdews, 
This night, this surely, Phoebus miss'd the fair, 
Wlio stops his chariot by her am'rous care. 
Cynthia, delighted by the morning's glow. 
Speeds to the woodland, and rc^uiiie; her bow; 



127 

Resigns her beams, and, glad to disappear, 
Blesses his aid, who shortens her career. 
Come — Phoebus cries — Aurora come — too late 
Thou '.iiiger'sl, siumb'ring, with thy wither'd mate! 
Leave him, and to Hymettus's top repair ] 
Thy darling Cephahis expects thee there. 
The goddess, with a blush, iier love betrays. 
But mounts, and driving rapidly, obeys. 
Earth now desires thee, Phoebus ! and t' engage 
Thy warm embrace, casts off the guise of age ; 
Desires thee, and deserves ; for who so sweet, 
Wlieu her rich bosom courts thy genial heat ? 
Her breath imparts to ev'ry breeze, that blows, 
Arabia's harvest, and the Paphian rose. 
Her lofty front she diadems around 
With sacred piues, like Ops on Ida crown'd-; 
Her dewy locks, with various flow'rs new-blown. 
She interweaves, various, and all her own, 
For Proserpine, in such a wreatli attired, 
Taenarian Dis himself with love inspired. 
Fear not, lest, cold and coy, tlie nymph refuse ! 
Herself, with all her sighing Zephyrs, sues ; 
Each courts thee, fanning soft his scented wing, 
And all her groves with warbled wishes ring. 
Nor, unendow'd and indigent, aspires 
The amorous Earth to «'ngage thy warm desires, 
Put. rich in balmy drugs, assists tliy claim, 
Divine Physician ! to that glorious name. 
If splendid recompense, if gifts can move 
Desire iu thee (gifts often purchase love) 



128 

She offers all the wealth her mountains hide, 
And all that rests heneath the boundless tide. 
How oft, when headlong from the heav'nly steep. 
She sees thee playing in the western deep, 
How oft she cries — " Ah Phoebus ! why repair 
Thy wasted force, why seek refreshment there ? 
Can Tethys win thee ? wherefore shouldst thoii lave 
A face so fair in her unpleasant wave ? 
Come, seek my green retreats, and rather choose 
To cool thy tresses in my chrystal dews, 
The grassy turf shall yield thee sweeter rest j 
Come, lay thy evening glories on ray bieast, 
And breathing fresh, through many a humid rose, 
Soft whispering airs shall lull thee to repose ! 
No fears I feel like Semele to die. 
Nor let thy burning wheels approach too nigh, 
For thou can'st govern them, here therefore rest, 
And lay thy evening glories on my breast !" 

Thus breathes the wanton Earth her am'rous 
flame, 
And all her countless offspring feel the same ; 
For Cupid now through every region strays, 
Bright'ning his faded fires with solar rays, 
His new-strung bow sends forth a deadlier sound. 
And his new pointed shafts more deeply wound j 
Nor Dian's self escapes him now untried, 
Nor even Vesta at her altar side ; 
His mother too repairs her beauty's wane. 
And seems sprung newly from the deep again. 



.129 

Exulting youths the Hymeneal sing, 

With Hymen's n:une roofs, rock.*, and vallies, ring^ 

He, new-attired, and by the season drest, 

Proceeds, all fragrant, in his saffron best. 

Now, many a golden-cinctur'd virgin roves 

To taste the pleasures of the fields and groves, 

All wish, and each alike, some fav'rite youth 

Hers, in tlie bonds of Hymeneal truth. 

]Now pipes the shepherd through his reeds again, 

Nor Phillis wants a song, that suits the strain, 

With songs the seaman liaiis the starry sphere. 

And dolphins rise from the abyss to hear ; 

Jove feels himself the season, sports again 

With his fair spouse, and banquets all his train. 

Noiv too the Satyrs, in the dusk of eve, 

Tiieir mazy dance through flowery meadows weave;, 

And neither god' nor goat, but both in kind, 

Silvanus, wreath'd with cypress, skips beiund. 

The Diyads leave their hollow silvan cells 

To ro.ira the banks, and soiitaiy delis ; 

Pan riots now j and from bis amorous chafe 

Ceres and Cybele seem hardly safe, 

And Faunus, all on fire to reach the prize. 

In cliase of some enticing Oread, flics 

She iiounds before, but fears too swift a bound, 

And hiddfrTi lies, but wishes to be found. 

Our shades entice th' Inmi(t!tals from above. 

And some kind pow'r presides o'er every grove; 

And loDg, y<^ pow'r?, o'er ev'jy grove preside, 

For all is safe, and blest, where ye abide ! 



130 

Return, O Jove ! the age of gold restore — 
Why choose to dwell, where storinsiand thunder 

roar ? 
At least, thou, Phoebus ! moderate thy speed ! 
Let not the vernal liours too swift proceed, 
Command rough Winter back, nor yield the pole 
Too soou to Night's encroaching long control ! 



ELEGY VI. 
TO CHARLES DEODATI, 

Wlio, while he spent his Christmas in the country, sent 
the Author a poetical epistle, in which he requested 
that his verses, if not so good as usual, might be ex- 
cused on account of the many feasts, to which his 
friends invited him, and which would not allow him 
leisure to finish them, as he wished. 

With no rich viands overcharged, I send 
Health, which perchance you want, my pamper'd 

friend, 
But wherefore should thy muse *empt mine away 
From what she loves, from darkness into day p 
Art thou derirous to be told how well 
I love thee, and in verse p verse cannot tell. 
For verse has bounds, and must in measure move; 
But neither bounds nor measure knows ray love. 



131 

How pleasant, in thy lines describ'd, appear 
December's harmless sports, and rural cheer ! 
French spirits kindling with cerulean fires. 
And all such gambols, as the time inspires ! , 

Think not that wine against good verse offends ; 
The muse and Bacchus have been always friends, 
Nor Phoebus blushes sometimes to be found 
With ivy, rather than with laurel, crown'd. 
The Nine themselves ofttimes have join'd the song, 
And revels of the Bacchanalian throng ; 
Not even Ovid could in Scythian air 
Sing sweetly — why ? no vine would flourish there. 
What in brief numbers sung Anacreon's muse p 
Wine, and the rose, that sparkling wine bedews. 
Pindar with Bacchus glows — his eveiy line 
Breathes the rich fragrance of inspiring wine^ 
While, with loud crash o'erturn'd, the chariot lies 
And brown with dust the fiery courser flies. 
The Roman lyrist steep'd in wine his lays 
So sweet in Glycera's, and Chloe's praise. 
Now too the plenteous feast, and mantling bowl 
Nourish the vigour of thy sprightly soul ; 
The flowing goblet makes thy numbers flow, 
And casks not wine alone, but verse, bestow. 
Thus Phoebus favours, and the arts attend, 
Whom Bacchus, and whom Ceres, both befriend. 
What wonder then, thy verses are so sweet, 
In which these triple powers so kindly meet ! 
The lute now also sounds, with gold in-wrought, 
And touch'd, with flying fingers, nicely taught, 



132 

In tap'stried halls, high roof 'd, the sprightly lyre 
Directs the dancers of the virgin clioir = 
If dull repletion fright the muse away, 
Sights, gay as these, may more invite her stay ; 
And, trust me, while the iv'ry keys resound, 
Fair damsels sport, and perfumes steam around, 
Apollo's influence, like ethere^.l flame, 
Shall animate, at once, thy glowing frame, 
And all the Muse shall rush into thy breast, 
By love and rausick's blended pow'rs possest. 
For num'rous pow'rs light Elegy befriend, 
Hear her sweet voice, and at her call attend j 
Her, Bacchus, Ceres, Venus, all approve, 
And, with his blushing mother, gentle Love. 
Hence to such bards we grant the copious use 
Of banquets, and the vine's delicious juice. 
But they, who demi-gods, and heroes praise. 
And feats perform'd in Jove's more youthful day?- 
^\ ho now the counsels of high heaven explore, 
Now shades, that echo the Cerberean roar, 
Simply let these, like him of Samos live, 
Let herbs to them a bloodless banquet give j 
In beecben goblets let their bev'rage shine, 
Cool uo;n the chrystal spring, their sober wine ' 
Their youth should pass, in innocence, secure 
From stain licentious, and in manners pure, 
Pure as the priest, when roh'd in white he stands. 
The fresh lustration ready in his hands. 
Thus Linus iiv'd, and thus, as poets write, 
Tiresias, wiser for his loss of sight ! 



133 

Thus exil'd Chalcas, thus the bard of Thrace^ 
Melodious tamer of the savage race ! 
Thus train'd by temp'rance, Homer led, of yore^ 
His rhief of Ithaca from shore to shore, 
Through magick Circe's monster-peopled reign, 
And shoals insidious with the siren train ; 
And through the realms, where grizly spectres- 
dwell, 
Whose tribes he fettered in a gory spell ; 
For these are sacred bards, and, from above. 
Drink large infusions from the mind of Jove ! 

Would'st thou (perhaps 'tis hardly worth thine 
ear) 
Would'st thou be told my occupation here ? 
The promised King of peace employs my pen, 
Th' eternal cov'nant made for guilty men, 
The new born Deity with infant cries 
Filling the sordid hovel, where he lies; 
The hymning angels, and the herald star. 
That led the Wise, who sought him from afar,, 
And idols on their own unhallow'd shore 
Dash'd, at his birth, to be revered no more ! 

This theme on reeds of Albion I rehearse: 
The dawn of that blest day inspired the verse j 
Verse, that, reserv'd in secret, shill attend 
Thy candid voice, my critick, and my friend! 



12 



134 
ELEGY VII. 

Composed in the Author's 19th year. 

As yet a stranger to the gentle fires, 

That Amathusia's smiling queen inspires, 

Not seldom I derided Cupid's darts, 

And scorn'd his claim to rule all human hearts. 

"Go, child," I said, " transfix the tim'rous dove * 

An easy conquest suits an infant love; 

Enslave the sparrow, for such prize shall be 

Sufficient triumph to a chief like thee ! 

Why aim thy idle arms at human kind ? 

Thy shafts prevail not 'gainst the noble mind.'* 

The Cyprian heard, and, kindling into ire, 
(None kindles sooner) burn'd with double fire* 

It was the spring, and newly risen day 
Peep'd o'er the haiTilets on the first of May j 
My eyes too tender for the blaze of light, 
Still sought the shelter of retiring night. 
When Love approach'd, in painted plumes array'd 
Th' insidious god his rattling darts betray'd, 
Nor less his infant features, jind the sly. 
Sweet intimations of his threat'ning eye. 

Such the Sigeian boy is seen above, 
Filling the goblet for imperial Jove ; 



135 

Siich he, on whom the nymphs bestow 'd their 
charms, 

Hylas, who perish'd in a Naiad's arras. 

Angry he seem'd, yet graceful in his ire, 

And added threats, not destitute of fire. 

*' My power," he said, " by others pain alone, 

'Twere best to learn ; now learn it by thy own ! 
With those, who feel my power, that pow'r attest? 

And in thy anguish be my sway confest ! 

I vanquish'd Phoebus, though returning vain 

From his new triumph o'er the Python slain, 

And, when he thinks on Daphne, even he 

Will yield the prize of archery to me. 

A dart less true the Parthian horseman sped, 

Behind him kill'd, and conquer'd as he fled •. 

Less true th' expert Cydonian, and less true 

The youth, whose shaft his latent Procris slew. 

Vanquish'd by me see huge Orion bend, 

By me Alcides, and Alcides' friend. 

At me should Jove himself a bolt design, 

His bosom first should bleed transtixt by mine. 

But all thy doubts this shaft will best explain, 

Nor shall it reach thee with a trivial pain. 

Thy Muse, vain youth ! shall not thy peace 

ensure, 
Nor Phoebus' serpent yield tliy wound a cure." 

He spoke, and, waving a bright shaft in air, 
Sought tlie warm bosom of the Cyprian fair. 



13^ 

That thus a child should bluster in my ear, 
Provok'd iny langhter, raore than tnovM my fear, 
Ishunn'd not, therefore, publick haunts, hutstray'tt 
Careless in city, or suburban shade. 
And passing, and repassing, nymphs, that mov'd 
With grace divine, beheld where'er I rov'd. 
Bright shone the vernal day, with double blaze, 
As beauty gave new force to Phcebus' rays. 
By no grave scruples check'd, I freely eyed 
The dang'rous show, rash youth my only guide, 
And many a look of many a fair unknown 
Met full, unable to control ray own. 
But one I raark'd (then peace forsook my breast) 
One— Oh how far super iour to the rest ! 
What lovely features I such the Cyprian queen 
Hersolf might wish, and Juno wish her mien. 
The very nymph was she, whom when I dar'd 
His arrows. Love had even then prepar'd ! 
Nor was himself remote, nor urisupplied 
With torch well-trlmni'd and quiver at his side; 
Now to her lips he clung, her eye- lids now, 
Then settled on her cheeks, or on her brow. 
And with a thousand wounds from evVy part 
Pierced, and transpierced, my undefended heart 
A fever, new to me, of fi ^rce desire 
Now seiz'd my soul, and I was all on fire. 
But she, the while, whom only I adore, 
Was gone^ and vanish'd, to appear no more 



137 

In silent sadness ! pursue my way ; 

I pause, I turn, proceed, yet wish to stay» 

And while I follow her in thought, bemoan 

With tears, my soul's delight so quickly flown. 

When Jove had hurl'd him to the Lemnian coast, 

So Vulcan sorrow'd for Olympus lost, 

And so Oeclides, sinking into night, 

From the deep gulf look'd up to distant light. 

Wretch that I am, what hopes for me remain, 
Who cannot cease to love, yet love in vain ? 
Oh could I once, once more behold the fair, 
Speak to her, tel her, of the pangs I bear, 
Perhaps she is not adamant, would show 
Perhaps some pity at my tale of wo. 
Oh inauspicious flame — tis mine to prove 
A matchless instance of disastrous love. 
Ah spare me, gentle pow'r ! — If such thou be, 
Let not thy deeds, and nature, disagree. , 

Spare me, and I will worship at no shrine 
With vow and sacrifice, save only thine. 
Now I revere thy fires, thy bow, thy darts : 
Now own thee sovereign of all human hearts. 
Remove ! no — grant me still this raging wo ! 
Sweet is the wretchedness, that lovers know : 
But pierce hereafter (should I chance to see 
One destin'd mine) at once both her, and me. 

Such were the trophies, that, in earlier days, 
By vanity seduced, I toil'd to raise, 
Studious, yet indolent, and urg'd by youth, 
That worst of teachers ! from the ways of truth j 
12 * 



13« 

Till learning taught me, in his shady bow'r. 
To quit love's servile yoke, and spurn his pow'r, 
Then, on a sudden, the fierce flame supprest, 
A frost continual settled on my bieast, 
Whence Cupid fears his flames extinct to see. 
And Venus dreads a Diomede in me. 



EPIGRAMS. 



ON THE INVENTOR OF GUNS 

Praise in old time the sage Prometheus won, 
Who stole ethereal radinnce from the sun ; 
But greater he, w'lose bold invention strove 
To emulate the fiery bolts of Jove. 



[The poems on the subject of the Gunpowder Treason 
I bavf ix't traiislatf'd, both because tht matter of th< m is 
ui2\il;:8sai t, aiid !)tcause they are wiitteu x.ith ai. asinri- 
ty, vvijid), iiowevi r it might be ».'. L.rnuitc<< in Miltoo's 
day, wouid be extremely unseasonable now .J 



139 



TO LEONORA SINGING AT ROME * 

Another Leonora once inspir'd 

Tasso, with fatal love to phrensy fir'd, 

But how much happier, liv'd he now, were he, 

Pierc'd with whatever pangs for love of thee ! 

Since could he hear that heavenly voice of thine. 

With Adriana's lute of sound divine, 

Fiercer than Pentheus' tho' his eye osight roll, 

Or ideot apathy benuDQb his soul, 

You still, with medicinal sounds, might cheer 

His senses wandering in a blind career ; 

And sweetly breathing through his wounded 

breast. 
Charm, with soul-soothing song, his tlioughts t« 

rest. 



TO THE SAME. 

Naples, too credulous, ah ! boast no more 
The sweet-voic'd Siren buried on thy shore, 
That, when Parthenope deceas'd, she gave 
Her sacred dust to a Chalcidick grave, 

* I have translated only two of the three poetical com- 
pliments addressed to Leonora, as they appear to me far 
superiour to what I haTe omitt^. 



140 

For still she lives, but has exchanged tlie hoarse 
Pausilipo for Tiber's placid course, 
Where, idol of all Rome, she now in chains. 
Of magick song, both gods and men detains. 



THE COTTAGER AND HIS LANDLORD. 



A PEASANT to his lord pay'd yearly court, 
Presenting pippins, of so rich a sort 
That he, displeas'd to have a part alone, 
ReraorM tiie tree, that all might be his own. 
The tree, too old to travel, though before 
So fruitful, wither'd, and would yield no more. 
The 'squire, perceiving all his labour void, 
Curs'd his own pains, so foolishly eraploy'd. 
And " Oh," he cried, " that I had liv'd content 
With tribute, small indeed, but kindly meant ! 
My av'rice has expensive prov'd to me. 
Has cost me both my pippins, and my tree." 



141 



CHRISTINA, aUEEN OF SWEDEN, 



CROMWELL'S PICTURE. 

Christina, maiden of heroick mien ! 

Star of the North ! of northern sta-s the queen! 

Behold what wrinkles 1 have earn'd, and how 

The iron casque still chafes my vet'ran hrow 

While following fate':: dark footsteps, I fulfil 

The dictates of a hardy people's will 

But soften'd, in thy sight, my looks appear, 

Not to all Queens or kings alike severe. 



MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. 

ON THE 

DEATH OF THE VICE CHANCELLOR, 

A PHYSICIAN. 

Learn, ye nations of the earth, 
The condition of your birth. 



142 

Now be taught your feeble state ! 
Know, that all must yield to fate ! 

If the mournful rover, Death, 
Say out once — " resign your breath !" 
Vainly of escape yon dream, 
You must pass the Stygian stream. 

Could the stoutest overcome 
Death's assault, and baflfle doom, 
Hercules had both withstood, 
Undiseas'd by JVessus' blood. 

Ne'er had Hector press'd the plain 
By a trick of Pallas slain, 
Nor the chief to Jove allied 
By Achilles' phantom died. 

Could enchantments life prolong, 
Circe, sav'd by magick song, 
Still Mad liv'd, and equal skill 
Had preserv'd Medea still. 

Dwelt in herbs, and drugs, a pow'r 
To avert man's destin'd hour, 
Learn'd Machaon should have known 
Doubtless to avert his own, 

Chiron had surviv'd the smart 
Of the Hydra-tainted dart. 
And Jove's bolt had been, with ease, 
Foil'd by Asclepiades. 



143 

Thou too, sage ! of whom forlorn 
Helicon and Cirrha mourn, 
Still had'st fill'd thy princely place 
Regent of the gowned race. 

Had'st advanc'd to higher fame 
Still, thy much-ennobled name, 
Nor in Charon's skiff eyplor'd 
The Tartarean gulf abhorr'd. 

But resentful Proserpine, 
Jealous of thy skill divine, 
Snapping short thy vital thread 
Thee too number'd with the dead. 

Wise and good ! untroubled be 
The green turf, that covers thee ! 
Thence, in gay profusion, grow 
All the sweetest flow'rs that blow ! 

Pluto's consort bid thee rest ! 
jEacus pronounce thee blest ! 
To her home thy shade consiga ! 
Make Elysium ever thine ! 



14^ 



DEATH OF THE BISBOP OF ELY, 

Writtea in the Autlioi-'s 17th year. 

My lids with grief were tumid yet, 

And still my sullied clieek was wet 

With briny dews, profusely shed 

For venerable Winton dead ; 

When Fame, whose tales of saddest sound. 

Alas ! are ever truest found, 

The news thn »ugh all our cities spread 

Of yet another mitred head 

By ruthless fate to death consign'dy 

Ely, the honour of his kind ! 

At once a storm of passion heav'd- 
My boiling bosom, much I griev'd 
But more I rag'd, at ev'ry breath 
Devoting Death himself to death. 
Wi)ti less revenge did Naso teem, 
When hated Ibis was his theme ; 
With less, Archiloclius, denied 
The lovely Greek, his promis'd bride. 

But lo ! while thus I execrate, 
Incens'd, the minister of fate, 
Wondrous accents, «oft, j^et clear, 
Wafted on the gale I hear. 



145 

" Ah, much deluded ! lay aside 
Thy threats, and anger misapplied ! 
Art not afraid with sounds like these 
T' offend, where thou canst not appease p 
Death is not (wherefore dream'st thou thus ?) 
The son of Night, and Erebus ; 
Nor was of fell Erynnis born 
On gulfs, where Chaos rules forlorn : 
But, sent from God, his presence leaves, 
To gather home his ripen'd sheaves, 
To call encumber'd souls away 
From fleshly bonds to boundless day, 
(As when the winged hours excite. 
And summon forth the morning- light) 
And each to convoy to her place 
Before th' Eternal Father's face. 
But not the wicked— them, severe 
Yet just, from all their pleasures here 
He hurries to the realms below, 
Terrifick?realms of penal wo ! 
Myself no sooner heard his call, 
Than, scaping through my prison-wall, 
1 bade adieu to bolts and bars, 
And soar'd, with angels, to the stars, 
Like him of old, to whom 'twas giv'n 
To mount, on fiery wheels, to Heav'n. 
Bootes' waggon, slow with cold, 
Appall'd me not ; nor to behold 
The sword, that vast Orion draws, 
Or ev'n the Scorpioa's horrid claws. 

13 



14C 

Beyond the Stin's briglit oi-b I fly, 
And, far beneath my feet, destiy 
Nights dread goddess, seen with awe, 
Whom her winged dragons draw. 
Thus, ever wond'ring at my speed, 
Augmented still as I proceed, 
I pass the planetary sphere, 
The Milky Way — and now appear 
Heav'n's clirystal battlements, her door 
Of massy pearl, and em'rald floor. 

But here I cease. For never can 
The tor.'ciue of once a mortal man 
In suitable description trace 
The pleasures of that happy place j 
Suffice it, that those joys divine 
Are all, and all for ever, mine !'♦ 



?JATURE UNIMPAIRED BY TIME. 

An, how the human mind wearies herself 

Witii her own v;and'rii)gn, and, involv'd in gloom 

Impenetrable, speculates amiss ! 

Measuring, in her folly, things divine 

By :.iim m ; laws inscrih'd on adamant 

By ; ;ws of man's device, and counsels fixt 

Far ever, by tlie hours, that pass, and die. 



147 

How ? — shall the face of nature then be ploiigh'd 
Into deep wrinkles, and shall years at last 
On the great Parent fix a sterile curse p 
Shall even she confess old age, and halt, 
And, palsy-smitten, shake her starry brows? 
Shall foul \ntiquity with rust and drought, 
And Famine, vex the radiant worlds above ? 
Shall 'I'ime's unsated maw crave and iagulf 
The very Heav'ns, that regulate his flight ? 
And was the Sire of all able to fence 
His works, and to uphold the circling worlds. 
But, through improvident, and heedless haste, 
Let slip th' occasion? — so then — all is lost — 
And in some future evil iiour, yon arch 
Shall crumble, and come thund'ring down, the 

poles 
Jar in collision, the Olympian king 
Fall with his throne, and Pallas, holding forth 
Theterrours of tiie Gorgon shield in vain, 
Shall rush to the abyss, like Vulcan hurl'd 
Down into Lemnos, through the gate of Heav'n. 
Thou also, with precipitated wheels, 
Phoebus ! thy own son's fall shalt imitate, 
With hideous ruin shalt impress the deep 
Suddenly, and the flood shall reek, and hiss, 
At the extinction of the lamp of day. 
Then too, shall Haemus, cloven to his base, 
Be shattered, and the huge Cerauuian hills, 
Once weapons of Tiiitarean Dis, immers'd 
In Erebus, shall fill himself with fear. 



148 

No. The Almighty Father surer lay'd 
His deep foundations, and providing well 
For the event of all, the scales of Fate 
Suspended, in just equipoise, and bade 
His universal works, from age to age, 
One tenour hold, perpetual, undisturb'd. 

Hence the prime mover wheels itself about 
Continual, day by day, and with it bears 
In social measure swift the heav'ns around. 
Not tardier now is Satin-n than of old. 
Nor radiant less the burning casque of Mars. 
Phcebus, his vigour unimpair'd, still shows 
Th' efFulg<"nce of his youth, nor needs the god 
A downward course, that he may warm the vales ; 
But, ever rich in influence, runs his road. 
Sign after sign, through all the heav'nly zone. 
Beautiful, as at first, ascends the star 
From odoriferous Ind, whose office is 
To gather home betimes th' ethereal flock, 
To pour them o'er the skies again at eve, 
And to discriminate the night and day. 
Still Cynthia's changeful horn waxes, and wanes, 
Alternate, and with arms extended still. 
She welcomes to her breast her biother's beams. 
Nor have the elements deserted yet 
Their functions, thunder with as loud a stroke 
As erst, smiles through the rocks, and scatters 

them. 
The east still howls, still the relentless north 
Invades the shudd'ring Scythian, still he breatlies 



The winter, and still rolls the storms along. 
The king of ocean, with his wonted force, 
Beats oa Pelorus, o'er the deep is heard 
The hoarse alarm of Triton's sounding shell, 
Nor swim the monsters of the iEgean sea 
In shallows, or beneath diminished waves. 
Thou too, thy ancient vegetative pow'r 
Enjoy'st, < » earth ! Narcissus still is sweet, 
And, Phoebus ! still thy favourite, and still 
Thy fav'rite, Cytherea ! both retain 
Their beauty, nor the mountains, ore-enrich'd 
For punishment of man, with purer gold 
Teem'd ever, or with brighter gems the Deep. 

Thus, in unbroken series, all proceeds} 
And shall, till wide involving either pole, 
And the immensity of yonder heav'o, 
The final flames of destiny absorb 
The world, consum'd in one enormous pyre ! 



ON 

THE PLATONICK IDEA, 

AS IT WAS UNDERSTOOD BY ARISTOTLE. 

Yk sister pow'rs, who o'er the sacred groves 
Preside, and thou, fair mother of them all, 

13^ 



15(3 

Mnemosyne ! and, thou, who in thy grot 
Immense, reclui'd at leisure, hast in charge 
The archives and the ord'nances of Jove, 
And dost record the festivals of heav'n, 
Eternity ! — Inform us who is He, 
That great original by nature chos'n 
To be the arclietype of human kind, 
Unchangeable, immortal, with the poles 
Themselves coeval, one, yet ev'ry wliere, 
An image of the god, who gave him being ? 
Twin-brotlier of the goddess born from Jove, 
He dwells not in his father's mind, but, though 
Of common nature with ourselves, exists 
Apart, and occupies a locaj home. 
Whether, comp mion of the stars, he spend 
Eternal ages, roaming at his will 
From sphere to sphere the tenfold heav'ns, or 

dwell 
On the moon's side, that nearest ueiglibours eartii, 
Or torpid on the bunks of Lethe sit 
Among the multitude of souls ordain'd 
To flesh and blood, or whether (as may chance) 
That vast and giant model of our kind 
In some Oir distant region of this globe 
Seijuester'd stalk, with lifted head on high 
O'erlow'ring Atlas, on wliose shoulders rest 
The stars, territick even to tlie gods. 
IVever the Tlieb vi seer, whose blindnesisprov'd 
His best illumination, him beheld 
In secret vision ; never him tiie son 
Of Pleioue, amid the uoIs»4ess night 



151 

Descending, to the prophet-choir revealed ; 

Him never knew th' Assyrian priest, who yet 

The ancestry of Ninus chronicles, 

And Belus, and Osiris, far-renown'd ; 

Nor even thrice great Hermes, although skill'd 

So deep in myst'ry, to the worshippers 

Of Isis show'd a piodigy like him. 

And thou, who hast immortaliz'd the shades 
Of Academus, if the schools receiv'd 
This monstei- of the fancy first from thee. 
Either recall at once the banish'd bards 
To thy repnblick, or thyself evinc'd 
A wilder fabulist, go also forth. 



TO HIS FATHER. 

Oh that Pieria's spring would thro' my breast 
Pour its inspiring influence, and rush 
No rill, but rather an o'erflowing flood ! 
That, for my venerable Father's sake 
All meaner themes renounc'd, my muse, on wings 
Of duty borne, might reach a loftier strain. 
For thee, my Father ! howsoe'er it please. 
She frames this slender work, nor know I aught, 
That may thy gifts more suitably requite i 
'I'hough to requite them suitably would ask 
Keturus much uobler, and surpassing far 



152 

The meagre stores of verbal gratitude : 
But, such as I possess, I send thee all. 
This page presents thee in their full amount 
With thy son's treasures, and the sum is nought ; 
Nought, save the riches that from airy dreara 
In secret grottos, and in laurel bow'rs, 
1 have, by golden Clio's gift, acquir'd. 

Verse is a work divine ; despise not thou 
Verse therefore, which evinces (nothing more) 
Man's lieavenly source, and which, retaining still 
Some scintillations of Promethean fire. 
Bespeaks him animated from above. 
The Gods love verse j the infernal Pow'rs them- 
selves 
Confess the influence of verse, which stirs 
The lowest deep, and binds in triple chains 
Of adamant both Pluto and the Shades, 
In verse the Delphick priestess, and the pale 
Tremulous Sybil, make the future known, 
And he who sacrifices, on the shrine 
Hangs verse, both when he smites the threat'ning 

bull. 
And when he spreads his reeking entrails wide 
To sciutinize the Fates invelop'd there. 
We too, ourselves, what time we seek again 
Our native skies, and one eternal now 
Shall be the only measure of our being, 
Crown'd all with gold, and ehaiiuting to the lyre 
riariHonious verse, shall range tlie courts above. 
And make the starry firmament resound. 



153 

And, even now, the fiery spirit pure 
That wheels yon circling orbs, directs, himself, 
Their mazy dance witli melody of verse 
Unutl'rable, immortal, hearing which 
Huge Ophiuchus holds his biss suppress'd, 
Orion soften'd, drops his ardtjnt blade, 
And Atlas stands unconsciousof his load. 
Verse grac'd of old the feasts of kings, ere yet 
Luxurious dainties, dejtin.'d to tlie gulf 
Immense of gluttony, were known, and ere 
Lyaeus delug'd yet the temp' rate board. 
Then sat the bard a customary guest 
To share the banquet, and, his length of locks 
With beechen honours bound, proposed in verse 
The characters of heroes, and their deeds, 
To imitation, sang of Chaos old. 
Of nature's birth, of gods that crept in search 
Of acorns fall'n, and of the thunder bolt 
Not yet produc'd from Etna's fiery cave. 
And what avails, at last, tune without voice, 
Devoid of matter? Such may suit perhaps 
Tije rural dance, but such was ne'er the song 
Of Orpheus, whom the streams stood stiil to hear 
And the oaks foilow'd. Not by chords alone 
Weil touch'd, but by resistless accents more 
To sympathetiek tears the ghosts themselves 
He mov'd : these praises to his verse he owes. 

Nor thou persist, 1 pray thee, still to slight 
The sacred Nine, and to unagine vain 
And useless, pow'rs, by whom inspir'd, thyseli" 



154 

Art skilful to associate verse with airs 

ifarmoniotis, and to ii;ive the human voic« 

A thoiisanJ modulations, heir by right 

Indisputable of Arioii's fame. 

Now say, what wonder is it, if a son 

Of thine delight in verse, if so conjoined 

In close affinity, we sympathize 

In social arts, and kindred studies sweet P 

Sucn distribution of himself to us 

Was Plicebus' choice ; thou hast thy eift, and I 

Mine also, and between us we receive, 

Father and son, the whole inspirin; God. 

Nq ! howsoe'er the semblance thou assume 
Of hate, thou hatest not the gentle Muse, 
My t ather ! for thou uevfT b id'jt me tread 
The beaten path, and brond, tiiat leads right on 
To opulence, nor did'st condemn thy son 
To the insipid climours of the bar. 
To laws voluminous, ?n(\ ill observ'd ; 
But. wishing to eniich me more, to fill 
My mipd with treasure, l:?d'st me far away 
From city din to deep retreats, to banks 
Anci streams Aonian, and, with free consent, 
Didst place me happy at Apollo's side. 
I speak not now, on more important themes 
Intent, of common beoeff^s, and such 
As nature bids, but of thy larger gifts, 
My Father ! who, when f had open\l once 
The stores of Roman rhetorick, and learn'd 
The Jnll-ton'd language, of the eloquent Greeks, 



155 

Whose lofty musick grac'd the lips ©f Jove, 

Thyself didht couusel me to add the flow'rs, 
That Gallia boasts, those too, with which the 

smooth 
Italian his degenerate speech adorns. 
That witnesses his mixture with the Goth I 
And Palestine's prophetick songs divine. 
To sum the whole, whate'er the heav'n contain?, 
The earth beneath it, and the air between, 
The rivers and the restless deep^ may all 
Prove intellectual gain to me, my wisli 
Concurring with thy will ; science herself. 
All cloud rirmov'd, inclines ht'i- beauteous head, 
And ofTers me the lip, if, dull of heart, 
I shrink not, and decline her gracious boon. 

Go now, and gather dross, ye sordid minds, 
That covet it ; what could my Father more i' 
What more could Jove himself, unless he gave 
His own abode, the heav'n, in which lie reigns? 
More eligible gifts than these were not 
Apollo's to his sou, had they been safe, 
As they were insecure, who made the boy 
The world's vice luminary, bade him rule 
The ra(hant chariot of the day, and bind 
To his young brows his own all dazzling-wreath. 
I therefore, although last and leas^, my place 
Among the learned in the laurel grove 
Will hold, and where the couqu'ror's ivy twines, 
Henceforth exempt from the uuletter'd throng 
Profane, nor even to be seen by such. 



156 

Away then, sleepless Care, Complaint, away. 
And, Envy, with thy "jealous leer malign !'* 
Noi- let tlie monster Calumny shoot forth 
Her venom'd tongue at me. Detested foes ! 
Ye all are impotent against my peace, 
For 1 am privileg'd, and bear my breast 
Safe, and too high, for your viperean wound. 

But thou ! my Father, since to render thanks 
Equivalent, and to requite by deeds 
Thy liberality, exceeds my power, 
Suffice it, that I thus record thy gifts, 
And bear them treasur'd in a grateful mind ! 
Ye too, the favourite pastime of my youth, 
My voluntary numbers, if ye dare 
To hope longevity, and to survive 
Your master's funeral, not soon absorb'd 
In the oblivious Lethaean gulf, 
Shall to futurity perhaps convey 
This theme, and by these praises of my sire 
Improve the Fathers of a distant age ? 



157 

TO 

SALSILLUS, A ROMAN POET, 

MLXH INDISPOSED. 

The 01-iginal is written in a measure called Scazon, 
which signifies limpings and the measure is so denomi- 
nated, because, though in other respects larabick, it 
terminates with a Spondee, and has consequently a more 
tai-dy movement. 

The reader will immediately see that this property of 
the Latin vei-se cannot be imitated in English. 

My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along 
Tliy slow, slow step, in melancholy song, 
And lik'st that pace, expressive of thy cares, 
?fot less than Diopeia's sprightlier airs, 
When, in the dance, she beats,with measur'd tread, 
Heav'u's floor, in front of Juno's golden bed j 
Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine 
Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine. 
Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er 
From his own nest, on Albion's stormy shore, 
Where Eurus, fiercest of the iEolian band. 
Sweeps, with ungovern'd rage, the blasted land, 
Of late to more serene Ausonia came 
To view her cities of illnstrious name, 

14 



15S 

To prove, himself a witness of the truth, 
How wise her elders, and how learn'd her youth. 
Much good, Salsillus ! and a body free 
From all disease, that Milton asks for thee, 
Who now eridur'st tlie languor, and tlie pains. 
That bile inflicts, difFus'd through all thy veins^ 
Relentless malady ! not mov'd to spare 
By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air ! 

Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies, 
And tliou, Apollo, whom all ?icki.e«s flies, 
Pytbius, or Pcean, or what name divine 
Soe'er thou choose, haste, ileal a priest of thine ^ 
Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills, that melt 
With vinous dews, where meek Evauder dwelt I 
If aught salubrious in your confines grow, 
Strive whicli shall soonest heal your poet's wo, 
That, rendered to the Muse he loves, again 
He may enchant the meadows witli his strain. 
Nuraa, reclin'd in everlasting ease, 
Amid the shade of dark embow'ring trees, 
Viewing with eyes of unabated fire 
His lov'd vEgeria, shall tliat strain admire : 
So sooth'd, tlie tumid Tiber shall revere 
The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year. 
Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein. 
And guide them harmless, till they meet the main^ 



\5<3 



eiOVANNI BATTISTA MANSO, 

MARQUIS OF VILLA. 

MILTON'S ACCOUNT OF MANSO. 

Giovaiuii Battista Manso, Marquis of Villa, is aii 
Italian nublenran of the highest t-stimation atnoDg his 
eouiitiymeu, for Renius, literature, and ...ilitary accom- 
plishiueiits. To liini Torqiiato 'lasso adtlresseti his 
DialogUtis on Friendship, for he wa<! nieh tJi frie.id of 
Tasso, who has also celebrated him among th. other 
princes of his country, in his poem entitled, Geiusa- 
fenime Conquistata, bobk xx. 

Fra cavnVier magnanimi, e cortesi, 
Rispknde U Manso. 

IHtring the Author's stay at Naples, he received at the 
Iiar.ds of the Marquis a thousand kind offices and civili- 
ties, aad, desirous iiot to appear ungrateful, sent hira 
this poem a short time before his departure from that 
city. 

These verses also to thy praise the Nine, 
Oh Mrtnso ! happy in that theme design, 



160 

For, Gallus, and Maecenas gone, tliey see 
None sucii besides, or whom ttiey love i<! thee, 
And, if ray verse may give the meed of fame, 
Thine too ihall prove an everlasting name. 
Already such, il shines in Tasso's page 
(For thou wast Tasso's friend) from age to age. 
And, next, the Museconsign'd, (not unaware 
How high the charge,) Marino to thy care, 
Who, singing, to the nymphs, Adonis' praise, 
Boasts thee the patron of his copious lays. 
To thee alone the poet would entrust 
His latest vows, to thee alone liis dust ; 
And thou with punctual piety hast paid. 
In labour'd brass, thy tribute to his shade, 
Nor this consented thee — but lest the grave 
Should aught absorb of their's, which thou 

conld'st save. 
All future ages thou hast deign'd to teach 
The life, lot, genius, character of each, 
Eloquent as the Carian sage, who true 
To his great theme, the life of Homer drew. 

I, therefore, though a stranger youth, who come 
Chill'd by rude blasts, that freeze n)y Nortiiern 

home, 
Thee dear to Clio, confident proclaim, 
And I [line, for Phcebus' sake, a deathless name. 
Nor thou, so kind, wilt view with scornful eye 
A muse scarce rear'd beneath our sulieii sky, 
Who fears not, indiscreet as she is young. 
To seek in Latium hearers of her song. 



161 

We too, where Thames with his unsullied wav«s 
The tresses of the blue-hair'd Oceau laves, 
Hear oft by night, or slumb'ring, seem, to hear, 
O'er his wide stream, the swan's voice warbling 

clear. 
And we could boast a Tityrus of yore, 
Who trod, a welcome guest, your happy shore. 

Yes— dreary as we own our Nortliern clime, 
E'en we to Phoebus raise the polish'd rhyme^ 
We too serve Phoebus ; Phoebus has receiv'd, 
(If legends old may claim to be beiiev'd) 
iNo sordid gifts from us, the golden ear, 
The burnish'd ?pple, ruddiest of the year, 
The fragrant crocus, and to grace his fane, 
Fair damsfls chosen from the Druid train j 
Druids, our native bards in ancient time, 
Who gods and heroes prais'd in hallow 'd rhyme ? 
Hence, oftv^n as the maids oi" Greece surround 
Apollo's shrine witli hymns of festive sound, 
They name the virgins, wi)o arriv'd of yore, 
With British otf'ringi;, on the Delian shore, 
Loxo, fiom giant Coriueus sprung, 
Upis, on whose biest lips tlie future hung. 
And Hecaerge, with the golden heir. 
All decl:'d with Pictish hues, and all with bosoufK 
bai'e. 

Thou, thn«fo!e, hrppy sage, wiiattver clime 
Shall ring with Tasso's piaise in after time, 

14 * 



162 

Or with Marino's, shalt be known tlieir friend, 
And with an equal flight to fame ascend. 
The world shali hear how Phoebus, and the Nine, 
Were iurnates once, and willing guests of thine. 
Yet Phcebus, when of oldconstrain'd to roam 
The earth, an exile from his heavenly home, 
Enter'd, no willing guest, Admetus' door, 
Tliough Hercules had ventur'd there before. 
But gentle Chiron's c ;ve was near, a scene 
Of rural peace, cloth'd with perpetual green, 
And thither, oft as respite he requir'd 
From rustick clamours loud, the god retir'd. 
There, many a time, on Peneus' bank leclin'd 
At some oak's root, with ivy thick enlwin'd, 
Won by his hospitable friend's desire, 
He sooth'd his pains of exile with the lyre. 
Then shook the hills, then trembled Peneus' shore. 
Nor Oeta felt his load of forests more ; 
The upland elms descended to the plain, 
And soften'd lynxes wouder'd at the strain. 

Well may we think, O dear to all aijove ! 
Thy birth dislinguish'd by the smile of Jove, 
And tiiat Apollo shed his kindliest pow'r. 
And Maia's son, on that propitious hour, 
Since only minds so born can comprehend 
A poet's worth, or yield that worth a friend. 
Hence, on thy yet unfadcd cheek appears 
The ling'ring freshness of thy greener years. 
Hence, in thy front, and features, we admire 
Nature unwither'd and a mind entire. 



163 

Oh might so true a friend to me belong, 

So skill'd to jlrace the votaries of song, 

Should I recall hereafter into rhyme 

The kings, and heroes of my native clime, 

Arthur tlie chief, who even eow prepare?, 

In subterraneous being, future wars, 

With all his martial knights, to be restor'd, 

Each to his seat, around the fed'ral board, 

And Oh, if spirit fail me not, disperse 

Our Saxon plund'rers, in triumphant verse ! 

Then, after all, when, with the past content, 

A life I finish, not in silence spent. 

Should he, kind mourner, o'er my death-bed bend, 

I shall but need to say — *' Be yet my friend !" 

He, too, perhaps, shall bid the mai ble breathe 

To honour me, and with the graceful wreath 

Or of Parnassus, or the Paphian isle. 

Shall bind my brows — but 1 shall rest the while. 

Then al^o, if the fruits of Faith endure, 

And Virtue's promis'd recompense be sure, 

Born to those seats, to vvhicli the blest aspire 

By purity of soul, and virtuous lire, 

These rites, as Fate permits, I shall survey 

With eyes illmniu'd by celestial day. 

And, ev'ry cloud from my pure spirit driv'n, 

■Joy in the b.igbt beatitude of Heav'u I 



164 



THE DEATH OF DAMON. 



THE ARGUMENT, 

yhyrsis and Damon, shepherds and neighbours, had al 
ways pursued tlie same studies, and had, from their earli- 
est days, lx*n united iu the closest frie idshij). Thyrsis, 
while travelling for impravenient, received intelligence 
of the death of Damon, and, after a time, returning and 
finding it true, deplores himself, and his solitary condi- 
tion, in this poem. 

By Damon is to be understood Chailes Deodati, con- 
necttd with the Italian city of Lucca by his father's side, 
in othf r r> spects an Englishman ; a youtli of uncommon 
genius, erudition, and virtue. 



Ye Nj^mpbs of Hiraera (for ye have shed 
Erewhile for Daphiiis, and for Hfylas dead, 
And over Bion's long-lamented bier, 
The fruitless meed of many a sacred tear) 
Now through the villas lav'd by Thames, reheaife 
The woes of Thyisis in Sicilian verse. 



1 



165 

What sighs he heav'd, and how witli groans pro- 
found 
He made the woods, and hollow rocks resound, 
Young Damon dead ; nor even ceased to pour 
His lonely sorrows at tlie midnight hour. 

The green wheat twice had nodded in the ear, 
And ?olden harvest twice enrich'd the year, 
Since Damon's lips had gaspM for vital air 
Tlie last, last time, nor Thyrsis yet was there j 
For he, enamour'd of the Muse, remain'd 
In Tuscan Fiorenza long detain'd, 
But, stor'd at length with all, he wish'd to learH, 
For his flock's sake now hasted to return. 
And when the shepherd had resum'd his seat 
At the elm's root, within his old retreat. 
Then 'twas his lot, then, all his loss to know, 
And, from his burthen'd heart, he vented thus 
his wo. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what deities shall I suppose 
In heav'u, or earth, concerned for human woes, 
Since, Oh my Damon ! their severe dei-ree 
So soon condemns me to regret of thee ! 
Depart'sl thou tiius, thy virtues umepaid 
With fame and honour, like a vulgar shade ! 
Let him forbid it, whose bright rod controls, 
And sep' rates sordid from illustrious souls. 



166 

Drive far the rabble, and to thee assign 
A happier lot, with spirits worthy thine I 



" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoiigl 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Whate'er befall, unless by cruel chance 
The woif J5rst give me a forbidding glance, 
Thou shall not moulder undeplor'd. but long 
Thy praise shall dwe!! on ev'ry shepiiard's tongue; 
To Daphnis Srst they slnll delight to pay, 
And, after him, to thee the votive lay. 
While Pale shall the flocks, and pastures, love, 
Or Faunus to frequent the field, or grove, 
At least, if ancient piety and truth, 
With al! the learned labours of thy youth, 
May serve thee aught, or to liave left behind 
A sorrowing friend, and of the tuneful kind. 



" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of freding you. 
Yes, Damon ! such thy sure reward shall be ; 
But ah, what doom awaits uuhappy me p 
Who, now, my pains and perils shall divide. 
As thou wast wont, for ever al my side. 
Botii when the rugged frost annoy'd our feet, 
And when the herbiige all was parch'd with heat ; 
Whether the grim wolf's ravage to prevent, 
Or the huge lion's, arm' J with darts we went.!* 



IT^^ 



167 

Whose converse, now, shall calm my stormy day. 
With charming song, who now beguile my way ? 

"Go, seek your home, my limbs ; my thoughte 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
In whom sh ill I confide? Whose counsel find 
A balmy mecl'cine for my troubled mind ? 
Or whose discouise, with innocent delight, 
Shall Ril me now, and cheat the wint'ry night, 
While hisses on my hearth, the pulpy pear, 
And black'ning chesnuts start and crackle there, 
While storms abroad the dreary meadows whelm, 
And the wind thundeis thro' tlie neighb'ring elm; 

" Go, geek your home, my lambs ; my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Or who, when summer suns their summit reach, 
And Pan sleeps hidden by the shelt'ring beech. 
When shepherds disappear, nymphs seek the sedge^ 
And the stretcii'd rustick snores beneath the hedge, 
Who then shall render me thy pleasant vein 
Cf Attick wit, thy jests, thy smiles again? 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs; my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Where glens and vales are thickest overgrown 
With tangled boughs, I wander now alone. 
Till night descend, while blust'ring wind and show'r 
Beat on n>y temples through the shatter'd bowV. 



168 

" Go, seek your home, iny lambs ; my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Alas ! what rampant weeds now shame my fields, 
And wliat a mildew'd crop the furrow yields ! 
My rambling vines, unwedded to the trees. 
Bear shrivell'd grapes, my myrtles fail to please, 
Nor please me more my flocks j they, slighted, tura 
Their unavailing looks on me, and mourn. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs ; my thoughtfl 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
^^gon invites me to the hazel grove, 
Amyntas, on the river's bank to rove, 
And youngAlphesiboeus to a seat 
Where branching elms exclude the raid-day heat. 
" Here fountains spring— here mossy hillocks rise; 
" Here Zephyr whispers, and the stream replies.** 
Thus cash persuades, but, deaf to ev'ry call, 
I gain the thickets, and escape them all. 

" Go, seek your home, my lambs j my thoughts 
are due 
To other cares, than those of feeding you. 
Then Mopsus said, (the same who reads so well 
The voice of birds, and what the staVs foretell, 
For he by chance had noticed my return) 
" What means thy sullen mood, this deqp concern ? 
Ah Thyrsis ! thou art either cr^z'd with love, 
Or some siaigter influence from above ; 



169 

Dull Saturn's influence oft the shepherds rur ; 
His leaden shaft oblique has pierc'd thee through.*? 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'*d as ye are, 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
The nymphs aniaz'd, my melancholy see, 
And, " Thyrsis !" cry — " what will become of 

thee P 
What would'st thou, Thyrsis ? such should not 

appear 
The brow of youth, stern, gloomy, and severe ; 
Brisk youth should laugh, and love — ah shun the 

fate 
Of those, twice wretched mopes ! who love to© 

late !" 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpasturM as ye are» 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
^gle with Hyas came, to sooth my pain, 
And Baucis' daughter, Dryope, the vain, 
Fair Dryope, for voice and finger neat 
Known far and near, and for her self conceit ; 
Chloris too came, whose cottage on the lands, 
That skirt the Idumanian current, stands ; 
But all in vain they came, and but to see 
Kind words, and comfortable, lost on me. 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastnr'd as ye are ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah blest indiff'rence of the playful herd, 
None by his fellow chosen, or prcferrM ! 

15 



170 

Mo bonds of amity the flocks enthrall, 

But each associates, and is pleas'd with all ; 

So graze the dappled deer in nura'rous droves, 

And all his kind alike the zebra loves; 

The same law governs, where the billows roar, 

And Proteus' shoals o'erspread the desert shore ; 

The sparrow, meanest of the feather'd race, 

His fit companion finds in evVy place,^ 

With whom he picks the grain, that suits him best, 

Flirts here and there, and late returns to rest. 

And whom if chance the falcon make his prey, 

Or hedger with his well aim'd arrow slay. 

For no such loss the gay survivor grieves ; 

New love he seeks, and new deliglit receives. 

We only, an obdurate kind, rejoice. 

Scorning all others, in a single choice. 

We scarce in thousands meet one kindred mind. 

And if the long-sought good at last we find. 

When least we fear it, Death our treasure steals, 

And gives our heart a wound, that nothing heals. 

" Go, go, my lambs, unpastur'd as ye are i 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Ah, what delusion lur'd me from ray flocks. 
To traverse Alpine sno«s, and rugged rocks ! 
AV'hat need so great liad 1 to visit Rome, 
Now sunk in ruins, and herself a tomb ? 
Or, had she flourish'd still as when, of old, 
For her sake Tityrus forsook his fold. 
What need so great iiad 1 t' incur a pause 
Of thy sweet intercourse for such a cause. 



I 



171 

For stjch a cause to place the roaring sea, 
Rocks, moiinti^ins, woods, between my friend and 

me? 
Else, had I grasp'd thy feeble hand, conipos'd 
Thy decent limbs, thy drooping eye-lids clos'd, 
And, at the last, had said—'" Farewell— ascend— 
Nor even in the skies forget thy friend !" 

" Go, go, my lambs, unlended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Altiiough well-pleas'd, ye tuneful Tuscan swains ! 
My mind the meoiVy of your worth retains, 
Yet not your worth can teach me less to mourn 
My Damon lost. — He too was Tuscan born, 
Boni in your Lucca, city of renown ! 
And wit possess'd, and genius, like your own. 
Oh how elate was I, when stretch'd beside 
The murmVing course of Arno's breezy tide, 
Beneath the poplar grove 1 pass'd my hours, 
Now cropping myrtles, and now vernal flow'rs, 
And heanng, as 1 lay at ease along, 
Your swains contending for the prize of song ! 
F also dar'd attempt (and, as it seems, 
Not much displeas'd attempting) various themes, 
For even I can presents boast from you. 
The shepherd's pipe, and ozier basket too, 
And Dati, and Francini, both have made 
My name familiar to the beechen shade, 
And they are learn'd, and eacli in ev'ry place 
Renown'd for song, and both of Lvdian race. 



172 

*' Go, go, my lambs, untended homeward fare ; 
My thoughts are all now due to otl-er care. 
TVhile bright tlie dewy grass with moonbeams 

shone. 
And, I stood hurdling in my kids alone, 
How ofteu have 1 said (but thou had'st found 
Ere then thy dark cold lodgment under ground) 
Now Damon siuas, or springes sers for hares, 
Or wicker work for various use prepares ! 
How oft, indulging fancy, have 1 plaim'd 
New scenes of pleasure, that I hop'd at hand, 
Call'd thee abroad as I was wont, and cried — 
" What boa ! uiy friend — come, lay tliy task aside, 
Haste, let us foith together, and beguile 
The heat, beneatli you wiiisp'ring shades awhile, 
Or on the nvcuvin stray of Colue's clear flood, 
Or where Cassibeian's gray turrets stood ! 
There thou shalt cull me simples, and shalt teach 
Thy friend the name, and healing pow'rs of each, 
From the tall blue- hell to the dwaitish weed, 
V/hat the dry land, and what tiie marshes breed. 
For all tiieir kinds alike to thee are known, 
And the whole art of Galen is tiiy own. 
Ah, perisii Gaku's art, and wither'd be 
The useless herbs, that gave not Jiealth to thee ! 
Tsvelve evenings since, as in poelick dream 
I meditating sat some slatller theme, 
Tiie reeds no sooner touciiM my lip, though new, 
And unassay'd beiore, than wide ihey flew, 
Bursting their waxen bands, nor couid sustain 
The deep-toii'd musick of the solemn strain 5 



173 

And I am vain perhaps, but I will tell 

How proud a tlieme I choose — ye groves farewell -I 

'* Go, go, ray lambs, untended -homeward fare j 
My thoughts are all now due to other care. 
Of Brutus, Dardan chief, my song shall be. 
How with his barks he plough'd the British sea, 
First from Rutupia's tow'ring headland seen, 
And of his consort's reign, fair Imogen ; 
OfBrennus, and Belinus, brothers bold, 
And of Arviragus, and how of old 
Our hardy sires th' Armorican controU'd, 
And of the wife of Gorloi's ; who, surpris'd 
By Uthcr, iu her husband's form disguis'd, 
(Such was the force of Merlin's art) became 
Pregnant with Arthur of heroick fame. 
These themes I now revolve — and Oh — if Fate 
Proportion to these themes my le-ngthen'd date, 
Adieu my shepherd's reed— yon pine-tree bough 
Shall be thy future home, there dangle thou 
Forgotten and disus'd, unless ere long 
Thou change thy Latian for a British song ; 
A British .!^-^^ven so— the pow'rs of man 
Are boimded ; little is the most he can ; 
And it shall well suffice me, and shall be 
Fame, and proud recompense enough for me. 
If Usa, golden-hair'd, my verse may learn, 
If Alain bending o'er his chrystal urn. 
Swift-whirling Abra, Trent's o'ershadow'd stream, 
Thames, lovelier far than all in my esteem, 
15^ 



174 

^famar's ore-tinctiir'd flood, and, after these, 
The wave-worn shores of utmost Oi'cades. 

" Go, go, my lambs, imtended homeward fare. 
My thouo;hts are all now due to other care. 
All this I kept in leaves of laurel-rind 
Enfolded safe, and for thy view design'd, 
This — and a gift from Manso's hand beside, 
(Man«o, not least his native city's pride) 
Two cups, that radiant as their giver shone, 
Adorn'd by sculpture with a double zone. 
The spring was graven there ; here slowly wind 
The Red-sea shores with groves of spices lin'd ; 
Her plumes of various hues amid the boughs 
The sacred, solitary Phoenix shows, 
And watchful of the dawn, reverts her head, 
To see Aurora leave her wat'ry bed. 
— In other part, th' expansive vault above, 
And there too, even there, the God of love; 
With quiver arm'd he mounts, his torch displaj's^ 
A vivid light, his gem-tipt arrows blaze. 
Around, his bright and fiery eyes he rolls. 
Nor aims at vulgar minds, or little souls, 
Nor deigns one look below, but aiming high 
Sends every arrow to the lofty sky ; 
Hence forms divine, and minds immortal, learn 
The pow'r of Cupid, and enamour'd burn. 

" Thou also, Damon (neither need 1 fear 
That hope delusive) thou art also thcrej 



175 

For whither should simplicity like thine 
Retire, where else such spotless virtue sliine I* 
lliou dwell'st not (thoii^^ht profane) in sliadeti 

below, 
Nor tears suit thee— cease then nriy tears to flow, 
Away with grief: on Damon ill bestow 'd ! 
Who, pure himself, has found a pure abode, 
Has pass'd the show'ry arch, henceforth resides 
With saints and heroes, and from flowing tides 
Quaffs copious immortality, and joy, 
With hallow'd lips !— Oh ! blest without alloy. 
And now enrich'd, with all that faith can claim, 
Look down, entreated by whatever name, 
If Damon please thee most (that rural sound 
Shall oft with echoes fdl the groves arouud) 
Or if Diodatus, by -which alone 
In those ethereal mansions thou art known. 
Thy blush was maiden, and thy youth the taste 
Of wedded bliss knew never, pure and chaste, 
The hoiiours, therefore, by divine decree 
The lot of virgin worth are given to thee ; 
Thy brows encircled with a radiant band, 
And the green palm-branch waving in thy hand, 
Thou in immortal nuptials shalt rejoice, 
And join with seraphs thy according voice, 
Where rapture reigns, and the ecstatick lyre 
Guides the blest orgies of the blazing quire." 



176 



AN ODE 

ADDHEHSED TO 

- MR. JOFIN ROUSE, LIBRARIAN, 

OF THE iNlVIiltSiTY OF OXFORD, 

On a lost Volume of my Pcx?nis, -vvhich he desired me te 
reiilacv, that Ik- niiglit add them to my other Works 
dcposiitd ill the Lilnvay. 

This Ode :s i-eiidered without rhyme, that it might 
more iideqiuitely n prt-sent tlie origual, which, as Miltui 
hiiDst !f ir.forms us, is oruo certain measui-e. It may 
pos^ihiy for this reason disappoint the ivader, tlimgh it 
cost the w ritcT mort- labour than the translation of any 
otlier piece in the wliole collection. 

STROPHE. 

My two-fold book ! single in show, 

Bill double in contents, 
Neat, but uot curiously adorn'd, 

Which, in his early youth, 
A poet gave, no lofty one in truth, 
Although an earnest wooer of the Muse — 
Say while in cool Ausonian shades, 

Or Pritish wilds l-.e roain'd, 
Striking by turns his native Ij^re^ 



177 

By turns the Daunian lute, 
And stepp'd almost in air. — 

AJiTISrROPHE. 

Say, little book, what furtive hand 
Thee from thy fellow-books convey 'd, 
What time, at the repeated suit 
Of my most learned friend, 
I sent thee forth, an honoured traveller. 
From our great city to the source of Thames. 

Ccerulean sire ! 
Where rise the fountains, and the raptures ring, 
Of the Aonian choir, 
Durable as yonder spheres, 
And through the endless lapse of years 
Secure to be admir'd p 



Now what God, or Demigod, 
For Britain's ancient Genius moT'd 
(If our afflicted land 
Have expiated at length tlie guilty sloth 
Of her dcgenVcite son?) 
Shall termiuate our impious feuds, 
And discipline, with hallow'd voice, recall 
Recall the Muses too, 
Driv'n from their ancient seats 
In Albion, and well nigh from Vlbion's shore, 
And with keen Fbcebean shafts 
Piercing th' unseemly birds, 



178 

Whose talons menace us, 
Shall c?rive the Harpy race from Helicon afarp 

ANTISTROPHH. 

But thou, my book, though thou hast stray'd, 
Whether by treach'ry lost. 
Or indolent neglect, thy bearer's fault, 
From all thy kindred books, 
To some dark cell, or cave forlorn, 
Where thou eodur'st, perhaps. 
The chafing of some hard untutor'd hand, 

Be comLbrted — 
For Jo ! again the splendid hope appears 

That thou may'st yet escape 
The gulfs of Lethe, and on oary wings 
Mount to the everlasting courts of Jove ! 

STROPHE iir. 

Since Rouse desires thee, and complains 
That, though by promise his, 
Thou yet appear'st not in thy place 
Among tfie literary noble stores, 

Giv'n to his care, 
But, absent, leav'st his numbers incomplete. 
H<*, therefore, guardian vigilant 
Of that uiiperishing wealth. 
Calls thee to the interiour shrine, his charge, 
W;iere he intends a richer treasure far 
Til m ion kept (Ion, Erectheus' son 
Illustrious, of the fair Oretisa born) 



179 

In the resplendent temple of his God, 
Tripods of gold, and Delphick gifts divine. 

ANTISTROVHE. 

Haste, then, to the pleasant groves, 
The Muses' fav'rite haunt ; 
Resume thy station in Apollo's dome, 

Dearer to him 
Than Delos, or the fork'd Parnassian hill ! 

Exulting go. 
Since now a splendid lot is also thine, 
And thou art sought by my propitious friend ; 
For there tliou shalt be read 
With authors of exalted note. 
The ancient glorious lights of Greece and Rome. 



Ye, then, my works, no longer vain. 
And worthless deem'd by me ! 
Whate'er this steril genius has produc'd 
Expect, at last, the rage of envy spent, 
An unmolested happy home, 
Gift of kind Hermes, and my watchful friend, 
Wliere never flippant tongue profane 
{Shall entrance find, 
And whence the coarse unletter'd multitude 
Shall babble far remote. 
Perhaps some future distant age. 
Less ting'd with prejudice, and better taught. 
Shall foraish miads of pow'r 



180 

To judge more equally. 
Then, malice silenced in the tomb, 
Cooler heads and sounder hearts, 
Thanks to Rouse, if aught of praise 
I merit, shall witii candour weigh the claim 



181 



TRANSLATIONS 



THE ITALIAN POEMS. 



Pair Lady ! whose harmonious name the Rhine, 
Through all his grassy vale, delights to hear, 
Base were indeed the wretch, who could forbear 

To love a spirit elegant as thine, 

That manifests a sweetness all divine, 
Nor knows a thousand winning acts to spare, 
And graces, which Love's bow and arrows are, 

Temp'ring thy virtues to a softer shine. 

When gracefully thou speak'st, or singest gaj'. 
Such strains, as might the senseless forest move. 

Ah then— turn each his eyes, and ears, away, 
Wlio feels himself unworthy of thy love ! 

Grace cm alone preserve him, ere the dart 

Of fond desire yet reach his inmost heart. 



Donna leggiadra, il cul bel nome honora 
L'herbosa val di Rheno, e il nobil varco, 
16 



182 

Bene e colui d'ognl valore scarce, 
Qual tno spirto genlil non innamora , 

Che dolcemente mostra si di fuora 
De sui atti soavi giamai parco, 
E i don,' che son d'aiuor saette ed arco, 
La onde I' alta tua virtu s'infiora. 

Quandotu vaga parii, o lieta canti, 
Che mover possa duroalpestre legno, 
Guarili ciascun a gli occhi, ed a gli orecchi 

L'entrata, chi dite si truova indegno j 
Gratia sola di sugli vaglia, inanti 
Che'l disio amoroso al cuor s'invecchi. 



As on a hill-top rude, when closing day 

Imbrowns the scene, some past'ral maiden fair 
Waters a lovely foreign plant with care, 
Borne from its native genial airs away, 
That scarcely can its tender bud display, 

So, on my tongue these accents, new, and rare, 
Are HowVr exotick, which Love waters there, 
While thus, O sweetly scornful ! 1 essay 
Thy praise, in verse to British ears unknown. 
And Thames exchange for Arno's fair domain ; 
So Love has will'd, and ofttimes Love has 

shown 
That what he wills, he never wills in vain. 
Oh that this hard and steril breast might be. 
To Him, who plants from Heav'n, a soil as free ! 



183 



UuAL in coUe aspro, al imbruuir di sera, 
L'avezza giovinetta pastorella 
Va bagnatido I'herbetta strana e bella, 
Che nial si spande a disusata spera, 

Fuor di sua natia alma primavera ; 
Cosi Amor meco insu la lingua snella 
Desta il fior novo di strania favella, 
Meutre io di te, vezzosamente altera, 

Canto, dal mio buon popol non inteso, 
E'l hel Tamigi cangio col bel Arno. 
Amor lo volse, ed io a 1' altrui peso, 

Seppi, ch' Amorcosa mai volse indarno. 
Deh ! foss' il mio cuor lento, e'l duro seno, 
A chi pianta dal ciel, si buon terreno ! 



They mock my toil— the nymphs and am'rous 

swains — 
And whence this fond attempt to write, they cry. 
Love songs in language, that thou little know'^t ? 
How dar'st thou risque to sing these foreign 

strains ? 
Say truly. Find'st not oft thy purpose cross'd, 
And that thy fairest flow'rs, here fade and die? 
Then with pretence of admiration high — 
Thee other shores expect, and other tides. 
Rivers, on whose grassy sides 



184 

Her deathless laurel leaf, with which to bind 
Thy flowing locks, already Fame provides ; 
Why then this burthen, better far declined ? 
Speak Muse! for me.— The fair one said, wh» 
guides 
My willing heart, and all my fancy's flights, 
" This istlie language, in which Love delights." 



RiDONSi donne, e giovani amorosi 
M' accostandosi attoino, e perche scrivi, 
■l^'Perche tu scrivi in lingua ignota e strama 
Verseggiando d' amor, e come t' osi ? 
Dinne, se la tua speme sia mai vana, 
E de pensieri lo miglior t' arrivi ; 
Cosi mi van burlando, altri rivi 
Altri lidi t'aspettan. ed altre onde 
Nelle cui verdi sponde 
Spuntati ad hor, ad hor, a la tua chioma 
L' immortal guiderdon d' eterne frondi : 
Perche allee spalle tue soverchia soma ? 

Canzon, dirotti, e tu per me rispondi ! 
Dice niia Donna, e'l suo dir e il mio cuore : 
" Questa e lingua, di cul si vanta Amore," 



185 

SONNET. 

TO CHARLES DEODATI. 

Charles — and I say it wond'ring — thou must 
know 
That I, who oncft assum'd a scornful air, 
And scoff'd at love, am fallen in his snare, 
(FuFl many an upright man has fallen so) 
Yet think me not thus dazzled by the flow 
Of golden looks, or damask cheek ; more rare 
The heart-felt beauties of my foreign fair j 
A mien majestick, with dark brows, that show 
The tranquil lustre of a lofty mind ; 
Words exquisite, of idioms more than one, 
And song, whose-fascinating pow'r might bind, 
And from her sphere draw down the lab'ring 

Moon, 
With such fire-darting eyes, that should I fill 
My ears with wax, she would enchant me still. 



DiODATi e te'l diro con maravigjia, 

Quel ritroso io, ch'amor spreggiar solea, 

E de suoi lacci spesso mi ridea, 

Gia caddi, ov'huora dabben talhors'impigli 

Ne treccie d' oro, ne guancia virraiglia 
16 ^ 



18(3 

M' abbagliaii si, ma sotto nova idea 
Pellegrina be!lezza, clie'l cuor bea, 
Portainenti ulti honesti, e nelle ciglia 

Quel sereno fulgor d' araabil nero, 

Parole adorne, di lingua pin d'una, 
E'l cantar, che di mezzo I'heniispero 

Ti-aviar ben puo la falicosa liuna, 

E deg!) occhi suoi auventa si gran fuoco 
Che I'incerar gli orecchi mi fia poco. 



Lady ! It cannot be, but tliat thine eyes 

Must be my sun, such radiance they displaj^ 
And strike me ev'n as Phoebus him, whose 
way 
Through horrid Lybia's sandy desert lies. 
Meantime, on tliat side steamy vapours rise 

Where must I suffer. Of what kind are they, 
New as to me they are, I cannot saj'. 
But deem them, in the lover's language — sighs. 
Some, tliough with pain, my bosom close conceals, 
Which, ifii. part escaping thence tliey tend 
To soften thine, thy coldness soon congeals* 
While others to my tearful eyes ascend, 
Whence my sad nights in shdw'is are ever drown'd. 
Till ray Aurora comes, her brow with roses bound. 



Per certo i bei vostr'occhi. Donna- mia, 

Esser non puo, che dod sian lo mio sole, 



187 

.Si mi percuoton forte, come ei suole 
Per rar«?ne di Libia, chi s'invia : 

Mentre un caldo vapor (ne senti pria) 
Da quel lato si spinge, ove iijio duole, 
Clie forse anianti nelle lor parole 
ChiHrnan sospir ; io non so die si sia : 

Parle rinchiusa, e turbida si cela 

Scosso mi 11 petto, e poi n'uscendo poco 
Quivi d' attorno os'aggliiaccia, o s'ingiela ; 

Ma quanto a gli occhi ginuge a trovar loco 
Tutte le notti a me suol far piovose 

Finche mia Alba rivien, colma, di rose. 



Enamour' J), artless, young, on foreign ground, 
Uucertain wliilher from myself to fly. 
To theij, dear Lady, with an humble sigh 
Let me devote my heart, which I have found 
By certain proofs, not kvf, intrepid, sound. 

Good, and addicted to conceptions high : 
When tempests shake the world, and fire the sky, 
It rests in adamant self wrapt around, 
As sate from envy, and from outrage rude, 
From hopes and fears, that vulgar minds abuse^ 
As fond of genius, and fixt fortitude. 
Of the resounding lyre, and every Muse. 
Weak you will find it in one only part, 
Now pierc'd by love's immedicable dart. 



188 



(iiovANE piano, e semplicetto araante, 

Pio die fuggir me stesso id dubbio sono, 
Madonna, a vol del mio cuor I'huniil dono 
Faro divoto ; io certo a prove tante 

L'hebbi fedele, intrepido, costante, 

De pensieri leggiadro, accorto, e buono; 
Quando rugge il gran mondo, e scocca il tuono, 
S' arma di se, e d' intero diamante, 

Tanlo del forse, e d' invidia sicuro, 
Di timori, e speranze al popol use 
Quauto d'ingegno, e d'alto valor vago, 

E di cetta soDora, e delle Muse : 

Sol troveretc in tal parte men duro, 
Uve Amor mise Tinsanabil ago. 



EPITAPH 

ON 

MRS. M. HIGGINS, OF WESTOPf. 

[1791.] 

Laurels may flourish round the conqu'ror's tomb, 
But liappiest they, who win the world to come : 
Believers have a silent field to fight, 
And their exploits are veil'd from human sight. 



189 

They ia some nook, where little known they dwell, 
Kneel, pray in faitli, and rout the hosts of Hell j 
Eternal triumphs crown their toils divine, 
And all tiiose triumphs, Mary, now are thine. 



THE RETIRED CAT. 

[1791.] 

A Poet's Cat, sedate and grave 
As poet well could wish to have, 
Was much addicted to inquire 
For nooks to wliich she might retire. 
And where, secure as mouse in chink, 
She might repose, or sit and think. 
1 know not where she caught the trick- 
Nature perhaps herself had cast iier 
In such a mouid philosopuiquh, 
Or else she learn'd it of her Master. 
Sometimes ascending, debonair, 
An apple-tree, or lofty pear, 
Lodg'd with convenience in the fork 
She watch'd the gard'ner at his work ; 
Sometimes her ease and solace sought 
In an old empty wat' ring- pot, 
There wanting nothing, save a fan, 
To seem some nymph in her sedan 
Apparell'd in cxactest sort. 
And ready to be borne to court. 



190 

But love of change it seems has place 
Not on'y in our wiser race ; 
Ca's also feel, as well as we, 
That passion's foi-ce, and so did she. 
Her climbina;, she began to find, 
Expos'd her too much to the wind, 
An. I the old utensil of tin 
W:;s cold and comfortless within : 
She therefore wish'd instead of those 
Some place of more serene repose, 
Where neither cold might come, nor air 
To rudely wanton with her hair. 
And sougiit it in the likeliest mode 
^Vithin her master's snug abode. 

A. draw'r, it chanced, at bottom lined 
With linen of the softest kind, 
With such as merchants introduce 
From India, for the ladies' use, 
A draw'r impending o'er the rest, 
Half open in the topmost chest. 
Of depth c-nough and none to spare. 
Invited her to slumber there, 
Pu?s with delight beyond expression 
Survey'd the scene and took possession. 
Recumbent at her ease, erelong. 
And luU'd by her own humdrum song, 
She left the cares of life behind, 
And slept as slie would sleep her last, 
W hen in came, housewifely inclin'd, 
The chambermaid, and sliut it fast, 



191 

By no malignity impell'd, 

But all unconscious whom it held. 

Awaken'd by the shock (cried Puss) 
" Was ever cat attended thus! 
" The open drawV was left, I see, 
" Merely to p'-ove a nest for me, 
** For soon as I was well composed 
" Then cauie the maid, and it was closed. 
" How smooth these 'kerchiefs and how sweet ■ 
"Oh what a delicate retreat ! 
" I will resign myself to rest 
** Till Sol declining in the west 
*' ShaU call to supper, when, no doubt, 
" Susan will come and let me out." 

The evening came, the sun descended, 
And pu.'s remain'd still unattended. 
The night roll'd tardily away, 
"(With her indeed 'twas never day) 
The spri<ihtly morn her course renew'd, 
The evening gray again ensued, 
And puss came into mind no more 
Than if entomb'd the day before. 
With huna;er pinch'd and pinch'd for roora 
She now presaged approaching doom. 
Nor slept a single wink or purr'd, 
Conscious of jeopardy incurr'd. 

That night, by chance, the poet watching 
Heard an inexplicable scratching ; 



192 

His noble heart went pit-a-pat, 

And to himself he said " what's that '. 

He drew the curtain at his side, 

And forth he peep'd, but nothing spied. 

Yet, by his ear directed, guess'd 

Something impiison'd in the chest, 

And, doubtful what, with prudent care 

Resolv'd it should continue there. 

At length, a voice which well he knew, 

A long and melancholy mew, 

Saluting his poetick ears. 

Consoled him and dispelled his fears ; 

He left his bed, he trod the floor, 

He 'gan in haste the draw'rs explore, 

The lowest first, and without stop 

The rest in order to the top. 

For 'tis a truth well known to most, 

That whatsoever thing is lost. 

We seek it, ere it come to light, 

In ev'ry cranny but the right. 

Forth skipp'd the cat, not now replete 

As erst with airy self conceit, 

Nor in her own fond apprehension 

A theme for all the world's attention, 

But modest, sober, cur'd of all 

Her notions hyperbolical. 

And wishing for a place of rest 

Any thing rather than a chest. 

Then stepp'd the poet into bed 

With this reflection in his head. 



'l93 



MORAL. 

Bevrare of too sublime a sense 
Of your own worth and consequence. 
The man who dreams liiinself so great, 
And his importance of such weight, 
That all around in rJl that's done 
Must move and act for Him alone, 
Will learn in school of tribulation 
The folly of his expectation. 



YARDLEY OAK. 

[1791.] 

Survivor sole, and hardly such, of all, 
That once liv'd here, thy brethren, ut my birth, 
(Since which I number threescore winters past,) 
A shatter'd vet'ran, hollow-trunk'd perhaps, 
As now, and with excoriate forks deform, 
B clicks of Ages ! Could a mind, imbued 
With truth from Heaven, created thing adore, 
I might with rev'rence kneel, and worship thee. 

It seems idolatry with some excuse, 
When .our forefather Druids in their oaks 
Imagined sanctity. The conscience, yet 
I'npurified by an authentick act 
Of amnesty, the meed of blood divine, 

n 



194 

Lov'd not the Usht, but, gloomy, into glooiu 
Of thickest slndes, like Adam after taste 
Of fruit proscrib'd, as to a refuge, fled. 

Thou wast a bauble once ; a cup and ball, 
Which babes might play with ; and the thievish 

jay, 

Seeking her food, with ease might havepurloin'd 

The auburn nut that held tiiee, swallowing down 

Thy yet close-folded latitude of boughs 

And all thine embryo vastness at a gulp. 

But Fate thy growth decreed ! autumnal rains 

Beneath thy parent tree mellow'd the soil 

Design'd thy cradle : and a skipping deer, 

With pointed hoof dibbling the glebe prepar'd 

The soft receptacle, in which, secure. 

Thy rudiments should sleep the winter through. 

So Fancy dreams. Disprove it, if ye can. 
Ye reas'ners broad awake, whose busy search 
Of argument, employ'd too oft amiss. 
Sifts half the pleasures of short life away ! 



Thou felTst mature ; and in the loamy clod 
Swelling vrith vegetative force instinct 
Didst burst thine cgz, as theirs the fabled Twins, 
Now stars ; twf> lobes, protruding, pair'd exact- 
A leaf succeeded, and another leaf. 
And, all the elements thy puny growth 
Fost'ring propitiou^, thou becam'st a twig, 



i9i> 

Who liv'd, when thou wast such? Oh, couldst 
thou speak, 
As in Dodoua once thy kindred trees 
Oraculai, I would not curious ask ^ 
The future, best unknown, but at thy moutli 
Inquisitive, the less ambiguous past. 

By thee I might correct, erroneous oft, 
The c)ock of history, facts and events 
Timing more punctual, unrecorded fads 

Recov'ring, and mistated setting right 

Desp'rate attempt, till trees shall speak again I 

Time made thee wliat thou wast, king of the 
woods ; 
And Time liath made thee wliat thou art— a cavt 
For owls to roost in. One? tliy spreading boughs 
O'erliung the champaign ; and the num'rous flocks, 
That graz'd it, stood beneath that ample cope 
Uncrowded, yet safe shelter'd from the storm. 
No flock frequents thee now. Thou hast outiiv'd 
Tiiy popularity, and art become 
(Unless verse rescue thee awhile) a thing 
Forffolten, as the foliage of thy youth. 

While thus tiirough all the stages thou hast 
push'd 
Of treeship — first a seedling, hid in grass ; 
Then twig ; then sapling ; and, as centVy roll'd 
Slow after century, a giant bulk 
Of girth enormous, with moss-cushlon'd roet 



195 

Upheav'd above the soil, and sides emboss'd 
With proinineut wens globose— till at the last 
The rottenness, which time is charg'd to inflict 
On other mighty ones, found also thee. 

What exhibitions various hath the world 
Witness'd of mutability in all, 
That we account most durable below ! 
Change is the diet, on which all subsist, 
Created changeable, and change at last 
Destroys them. !S!:ies uncertain uow the heat 
Transmitting cloudless, and the solar beam 
Now quenching in a boundless sea of clouds — 
Calm and alternate storm, moisture and drought, 
Invigorate by turns the springs of life 
In all that live, plant, animal, and man, 
And in conclusion mar them. Nature's threads, 
Fine passing thought, e'en in her coarsest works, 
Delight in agitation, yet sustain, 
The force, that agitates, not unimpair'dj 
But, worn by frequent impulse, lo the cause 
Of their best tone tlieii- dissolution owe. 

Thought cannot spend itself, comparing still 
The grea' and little of thy lot, thy growth 
From almost nullity into a state 
Of matchless grandeur, and declension thence, 
Slow, info such magnificent decay. 
Time was, when, settling on thy leaf, a fly 
Could shake thee to the root— and time has been 
When tempests could not. At thy firmest age 



197 

Thou hadst within thy bole solid contents. 

That might have ribbM the sides and plank'd th« 

deck 
Of some flagg'd admiral ; and tortuous anus, 
The shipwright's darling treasure, did'st present 
To the four-quarter'd winds, robust and bold, 
Warp'd into tough knee timber,* many a load ! 
But the axe spar'd thee. In those thriftier days 
Oaks fell not, hewn by thousands, to supply 
The bottomless demands of contest, wag'd 
For senatorial honours. Thus to time 
The task was left to whittle thee away 
With his sly scythe, Avhose ever nibbling edge, 
Noiseless, an atom, and an atom more. 
Disjoining from the rest, has, unobserved, 
Achiev'd a labour, which had far and wide, 
By man perform'd, made all the forests ring. 

Embowell'd now, and of thy ancient self 
Possessing nought, but llie scoop'd rind, that seems 
An liuge throat, calling to the clouds for drink, 
Which it would give in rivulets to thy root, 
Thou temptest none, but rather much forbidd'.st 
The fdler'p toil, whicii thou couldst ill requite. 
Yet is thy root sincere, sound as the rock, 
A quarry of stout spurs, and knotted fangs, 

* Kntt-Timber is fuiuid in the cix)oked anus of oak, 
whicli, by rv:uso:) of their distoitioii, are easily adjustetl 
to tlie aiijjle foraitd where tbe deck ai.J th'i ship's sides 
meet. 

17 * 



198 

Which, crook 'd into a thousand whimsies, clasp 
The stubborn soil, and held thee still erect. 

So stands a kingdom, whose foundation yet 
Fails not, in virtue and in wisdom laid, 
Though all the superstructure, by the tooth 
PulverizM of venality, a shell 
Stands now, and semblance only of itself ! 

Thine arms have left thee. Winds have rent 

them oJ9r 
Long since, and rovers of the forest wild 
With bow and shaft, have burnt them. Some 

have left 
A splinter'd stump, bleach'd to a snowy white ; 
And some, meraoriil none, where once they grew. 
Yet life still lingers in thee, and puts forth 
Proof not coatemptible of what she^can. 
Even where death predominates. The spring 
Finds thee not less alive to ker sweet force. 
Than yonder upstarts of the neighb'ring wood, 
So much thy juniors, who their birth receiv'd 
Haifa millennium since the date of thine. 
But since, althougii well qualified by age 
To teach, no spirit dwells in thee, nor voice 
May he expected fiom thee, seated here 
On thy distorted loot, with heareis none. 
Or prompter, save the scene, I will perform 
Myself the oracle, and will discourse 
In my own ear sucli matter as I may. 



199 

One man alone, the father of us ail, 
Drew not his life from woman ; never gaz'd, 
With mute unconsciousness of what he saw, 
On all around him ; learn'd not by degrees, 
Nor ow'd articulation to his ear; 
But, moulded by his Maker into man 
At once, upstood intelligent, survey'd 
All creatures, with precision understood 
Their purport, uses, properties, assign'd 
To each his name significant, and, fill'd 
With love and wisdom, render'd back to Heav'n 
In praise harmonious the first air he drew. 
He was excus'd the penalties of dull 
Minority. No tutor charg'd his hand 
With the thought-tracing quill, or task'd his mind 
With problems. History, not wanted yet, 
Lean'd on her elbow, watching Time, whose 

course. 
Eventful, should supply her with a theme ; 



200 



THE NIGHTINGALE, 

WHICH THE AUTHOR HEARD SING ON 
NEW year's day, 

1792. 

Whence is it, that amaz'd I hear 

From yonder wither'd spray, 
This foremost morn of all the year, 

The melody of May p 

And why, since thousands would be proud 

Of such a favour shown, 
Am I selected from the crowd, 

To witness it alone !' 

Sing'st thou, sweet Philomel, to me, 

For that 1 also long 
Have practis'd in the groves like thee, 

Though not like thee in song ? 

Or sing'st thou rather under force 

Of some divine command, 
Commission'd to presage a course 

Of happier days at hand ? 



261 



Thrice welcome then ! for mmy a long 

And joyless year have I, 
As thou to day, put forth ray song 

Beneath a wintry sky. 



But Thee no wintry skies can harm, 
Who only need'st to sing, 

To make e'en January charm, 
And ev'ry season Spring. 



LINES, 

Written for insertion, in a collection of hand-writings 
antl signatures made bj- ?.liss Patty, sister of Hannsdi 
More. 

[March 6, 1792.] 

In vain to live from age to age 

While modern bards endeavour, 
/ write my name in Patty's page 

And gain ray point for ever. 

W. COW PER. 



202 



EPITAPH 



A free but tame Redbreast, a favomite of Miss Sally 
Hurdis. 

[March 1792.] 

These are not dew-drops, these are tears, 

And tears by Sally shed 
For absent Robin, who she fears 

With too much cause, is dead. 

One morn he came not to her hand 

As he was wont to come, 
And, on ner finger perch'd, to stand 

Picking his breakfast-crumb. 

Alarm'd she call'd him, and perplext 

She sought him, but in vain, 
That day he came not, nor the next, 

Nor ever came again. 

She tlierefore rais'd him here a tomb, 

Though where he fell, or how, 
None knows, so secret was his doom, 

Nor where he moulders now. 



203 

Had lialf a score of coxcombs died 

In social Robin's st.'nd. 
Poor Silly's tears hii soon been dried, 

Or haply never shed. 

Bi:t Bob was neither rudely bold 

Nor spiritlessly tame, 
Nor was, like theirs, his bosom cold, 

But always in a flame. 



SONNET, 

TO 

WILLIAM WILBERFORCE, ESQ. 

[April 16, 1792.] 

Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, 
Hears thee by cruel men and impious call'd 
Fanatick, for thy zeal to loose the enthrall'd 

From exile, publick sale, and slav'ry's chain. 
Friend of the poor, the wvono'd, thefetter-gall'd, 

Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain. 
Thou hast achiev'd t. part ; has gain'd the ear 

Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; 

Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution 
pause 



204 

And weave delay, the better hour is near 
That shall remunerate thy toils severe 
By peace for Africk, fenced with British laws. 

Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love 
From all the just on. earth, and all the Blest above 



EPIGRAM 

t 

(printed in the NORTHAMPTON MERCURY. > 

To purify their wine some people bleed 

A lamb into the barrel, and succeed ; 

No nostrum, planters say, is half so good 

To make Bne sugar, as a negroes blood. ; 

Now lambs and negroes both are harmless things. 

And thence perhaps this wond'rous virtue springs, 

'Tis m the blood of innocence alone — 

Good cause why planters never try their own. 



205 



DR. AUSTIN, 

OF CECIC STREET, LONDON. 

[May 26, 1792.] 

Austin ! accept a grateful verse from me, 
The poet's treasure, no inglorious fee ! 
Lov'd by the Muses, thy ingenuous mind 
Pleasing requital in my verse may find; 
Verse oft has dash'd the scythe of time aside, 
Immortalizing names wliich else had died : 
And O ! could 1 command the glittering wealth 
With which sick kings are glad to purchase health ; 
Yet, if extensive fame, and sure to live. 
Were in the power cf verse like mine to give, 
I would not recompense his art with less. 
Who, giving Mary health, heals my distress. 

Friend of my frieud !* I love thee, tho' unknown, 
And boldly call thee, being his, my own. 

' *HayIey. 

18 



206 



SONNET, 

ADDRESSED 

TO WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

[June 2, 1792.] 

Hayley — thy tenderness fraternal shown, 
In our firstinterview, delightful guest ! 
To Mary and me for her dear sake distress'd, 

Such as it is has made my heart thy own, 

Though heedless now of new engagements grown ; 
For threescore winters make a wintry breast. 
And i had purpos'd ne'er to go in quest 

Of Frienship more, except with God alone. 

But Thou hast won me ; nor is Hod my Foe, 

Who, ere this last afflictive scene began, 

Sent Thee to mitigate the dreadful blow, 
My Brother, by wliose sympathy I know 

Thy true deserts infallibly to scan, 

Not more t* admire the Bard than love the Man. 



207 



CATHARINA: 

THE SECOND PART. 

On her Marriage to Geo-ge Courtenay, Esq- 
[June 1792.] 

Bhljbve it or not, as you choose, 

The doctrine is certainly true, 
That the future is known to the muse, 

And poets are orncles too. 
I did but express a desire, 

To see Catharina at home. 
At the side of my friend George's Sre, 

And lo — she is actually come. 

Such prophecy some may despise. 

But the wish of a poet and friend 
Perhaps is approv'd in the skies. 

And therefore attains to it? end. 
'Twasa wish that flew ardently orth 

From a bosom effectually warm'd 
With the talents, the graces, and worth 

Of the person for wliomit was form'd. 

Maria* would leave us, I knew, 

To the grief and re2;ret oi us all, 

* Lady Throckmorton. 



208 

But less to our grief, could we view 
Catharina the Queen of the Hall. 

And therefore I wish'd as 1 did. 

And therefore this union of hands 

Not a whisper was heard to forbid, 
But all cry — Amen— to the bans. 

Since therefore I seem to incur 

No danger of wishing in vain 
When making good wishes for Her, 

I will e'en to my wishes again — 
With one I have made her a Wife, 

And now I will try with another, 
Which I cannot suppress for my life — 

How soon 1 can make her a mother. 



AN EPITAPH. 

[1792.] 

Here lies one, who never drew 
Blood himself, yet many slew ; 
Gave the gun its aim, and figure 
Made in field, yet ne'er pull'd trigger. 
Armed men have gladly made 
Him their guide, and him obey'd, 
At his signified desire, 
Would advance, present, and Fire — 



209 

Stout he was, and large of limb, 
Scores have fled a*^ sight of him j 
And to all this fame he rose 
Only following his Nose. 
Neptune was he call'd, not He 
Who controls the boist'rous sea, 
But of happier command, 
Neptune of the furrow'd land ! 
And, your wonder vain to shorten, 
Pointer to Sir John Throckmorton. 



EPITAPH ON FOP, 

A DOG BELONGING TO LADY THROCKMORTON. 

[August 1792.] 

Though once a puppy, and though Fop by name. 
Here moulders One whose bones some honour 

claim. 
So sycophant, although of spaniel race, 
And though no hound, a martyr to the chase — 
Ye squirrels, rabbits, leverets, rejoice, 
Vour haunts no longer echo to his voice j 
This record of his fate exulting view. 
He died woru out with vain pursuit of you. 

" Yes—" the indignant shade of fop replies - 
" And woru with vain pursuit Man also dies.'' 

18 * 



210 



SONNET 

TO 

GEORGE ROMNEY, ESQ. 

ON 

His pieture of me in Crayons, di-awn at Eartham ib the 
61st year of my age, and in the months of August and 
September, 1792. 

[October 1792.] 

RoMNEY, expert, infallibly (o trace 

On chart or canvas, not the form alone 
And semblance, but, however faintly showu, 

The mind's impression too on every face — 

With strokes that time ought never to erase 

Thou iiastso pencill'd mine, that thoiigh I own 
The subject uorthless, I have never known 

The artist shining with superiour grace. 

But this I mark — that symptoms none of wo 
In thy incomparable work appear. 

Well — I am satisfied it should be so. 

Since on maturer thought, the cause is clear; 

For in my looks what sorrow couldst tJiou see 
When I was Hayley's guest, and sat to Thee? 



211 

ON 

RECEIVING HAYLEY'S PICTURE. 

[January, 1793.1 

In language warm as could be breatU'd or penn'd 
Thy picture speaks th' Original ray Friend, 
Not by those looks that indicate thy raind — 
They only speak the Friend of all mankind ; 
Expression here more soothing still I see. 
That Friend of all a partial Friend to me. 



EPITAPH 

ON 

MR. CHESTER, OF CHICHELEY. 

[April, 1793.] 

Tears flow, and cease not, where the good man 

lies, 
Till all who knew hira follow to the skies. 
Tears therefore fall where Chester's ashes sleep; 
Him wife, friends, brothers, children, servants, 

weep — 
And justly — few shall ever him transcend 
As husband, parent, brother, master, friend. 



212 

ON 

A PLANT OF VIRGIN'S-BOWER 

DESIGNED TO COVER A GARDEN-SEAT. 

[Spring of 1793.1 

Thrive gentle plant ! and weave a bow'r 

For Mary and for me, 
And deck with many a splendid flow'r 

Thy foliage large and free. 

Thou cam'st from Eartham, and wilt shade 

(If truly I divine) 
Some future day th' illustrious head 

Of Him who made thee mine. 

Should Daphne show a jealous frown 

And Envy seize the Bay, 
Affirming none so fit to crown 

Such honour'd brows a« they, 

Thy cause with zeal we shall defend, 

And with convincing pow'r ; 
For why should not the Virgin's Friend 

Be crown'd with Virgin's-bow'r P 



213 



TO MY COUSIN, 

ANNE BODHAM, 

ON 

Receiving from her a Network Purse, made by benelf. 

[May 4, 1793.] 

JVIt gentle Anne, whom heretofore, 
When I was young, and thou no more 

Than plaything for a nurse, 
I danced and fondled on my knee, ' 

A kitten both in size and glee, 

1 thank thee for my purse. 

Gold pays the worth of all things here j 
But not of love ; — that gem's too dear 

For richest rogues to win it j 
I, therefore, as a proof of Love, 
Esteem thy present far .ibove 

The best things kept vrithin it. 



214 

INSCRIPTION 

For an Hermitage, in the Author's Garden. 

[May 1793.] 

This cabin, Mary, in my sight appears, 
Built, as it has been, in our waning yeai's, 
A rest afforded to our weary feet, 
Preliminary to— the last retreat. 

TO MRS. UNWIN. 
[May 1793.] 

Mary ! I want a lyre with other strings, 
Suoh aid from Heav'n as some have feigned 

they drew, 
An eloquence scarce giv'n to mortals, new 

And undebas'd by praise of meaner things, 

That ere through age or wo I shed my wings, 
I may record thy worth with honour due, 
In verse as musical as thou art true, 

And that immortalizes whom it sings. 



215 

But thou hast little need. There is a book 
By seraphs writ with beams of heav'nly light, 

On which the eyes of God not rarely look, 
A chronicle of actions just and bright ; 

There all thy deeds, my faithful Mary, shine, 
And, since thou own'st that praise, I spare thee 
mine. 



TO 

JOHN JOHNSON, 

ON 

His presenting me with an antique bust of Homer. 
[May 1793.] 

K1NSM.A.N belov'd, and as a son, 'by me ! 

When I behold this fruit of thy regard. 

The sculptur'd form of my old fav'rite bard, 
I rev'reuce feel for him, and love for thee. 
Joy too and grief. Much joy that tliere should be 

Wise men and learn'd, who grudge not to re- 
ward 

With some applause my bold attempt and hard, 
Which others scorn : Criticks by courtesy. 



216 



^ 



The grief is this, that sunk in Homer's mine 
I lose my precious years now soon to fail, 

Handling his gold, which, howsoe'er it shine, 
Proves dross, when balanced in the Christian 
scale. 

Be wiser thou — like our forefather Donne 

Seek heav'nly wealth, and work for God aloue. 



A YOUNG FRIEND, 



His arriving at Cambridge wet, when no rain had falles 
there. 

[xMay, 1793.] 

If Gideon's fleece, which drench'd with dew he 

found 
While moisture none refresh 'd the herbs arounJ, 
Might ^itly represent tiie Church, endow'd 
With heuv'nly ^ifts, lo Heathens not ailow'd ; 
In pledge, perhaps, of favours from on high 
Thy locks were wet when otliers' locks were dry. 
Heav'ii grant us half the omen— may we see 
Not drought on others, but much dew on thee ! 



217 

A TALE. 

[June 1793,] 

In Scotland's realm where trees are few, 

Nor -even shrubs abound ; 
But wht^re, however bleak the view, 

Some better tilings are found, 

For Husband there and Wife may boast 

Their union undefii'd. 
And false ones are as rare almost 

As hedge-rows in the wild. 

In Scotland's realm forlorn and bare 
The hist'ry chanc'd of late — 

This hist'ry of a wedded Pair, 
A chaflRnch and his mate. 

The spnns drew near, each felt a breast 

With gPuiaHnstinct tlll'd ; 
They pair'd, and would have built a nest, 

But found not where to build. 

The heaths uncover'd and the moors 
Except with snow and sleet, '*' 

♦Sea-beaten rocks, and naked shprefi 
Could yield them no retreat. 

19 



218 

Long time a breeding-place they sought^ 
Till both grew vext and tired ; 

At length a ship arriving brought 
The good so long desired. 

A ship ? — could such a restless thing 

Afford them place of rest ? 
Or wap the merchant charged to bring 

The homeless birds a nest ? 

Hush — Silent hearers profit most — 

This racer of the sea 
frov'd kinder to them than the coast, 

It serv'd them with a Tree. 

But such a tree ! 'twas shaven deal, 

The tree they call a Mast, 
And had a hollow with a wheel 

Through which the tackle pass'd. 

Within that cavity aloft 

Their roofless home they fix'd, 

Forni'd with materials neat and soft, 
Benls, wool, and feathers mixt. 

Four iv'ry eggs soop pave its floor, 
Witii russet specks bediglit— 

The vessel weighs, forsakes the shore, 
And ksseas to the sight. 



21^ 

The mother-bird is gone to sea, 
As sLie had chang'd her kind ; 

But goes the male P Far wiser he 
Is doubtless teft behind ? 

No — Soon as from ashore he saw 
The winged mansion move, 

He flew to reach it, by a law 
Of never- failing love, 

Then perching at his consort's side 
Was briskly borne along, 

The billows and the blast defied. 
And cheer'd her with a song. 

The seaman with sincere delight 
His feather'd shipmates eyes. 

Scarce less exulting in the siglit 
Than when he tows a prize. 

For seamen much believe in signs, 

- And from a chance so new 
Each some approaching good divines, 
And may his hopes be true ! 

Hail, honoured land ! a desert where 
Not even birds can hide. 

Yet parent of this loving pair 
Whom Qothiag could divide. 



220 

And ye who, rather than resign 

Your matrimonial plan, 
Were uot afraid to plough the brine 

In company with Man, 

For whose lean country much disdain 

We English often show, 
Yet from a rlcoer nothing gain 

But wantonness and wo, 

Be it your fortune, year by year, 
Ttie same resource to prove. 

And may ye, sometimes landing here, 
Instruct us how to love ! 



This tale is founded on an article of iritelligence which 
the author found i) I the Buckinghamshire Hei'ald, for 
Saturday, June 1, 1793,in the following woids. 

Glasgorv, May 23. 
In a block, or pulley, near the head of the mast of a 
gabert, r.ow I) iikg at the Brooiiiielaw, there is a chaffinch's 
nest and fbui- eggs. The nest was built while the vessel 
lay at Gi-eenock, and was followed hither by both birds. 
Though the block is occasionally lowered for the inspec- 
tion of the curious, the birds have not forsaken the nest. 
The cock however visits the nest out sildom, wh'k the 
hen never leaves it, but when she descends to the hull f«r 



221 



WILLIAM HAYLEY, ESQ. 

[June 29, 1793.] 

Dear architect of fine chateaux in air, 
Worthier to stand for ever, if they could, 
Than any built of stone, or yet of wood, 

For back of royal elephant to bear ! 

O for permission from the skies to share, 
Much to ray own, though little to thy good. 
With thee (not subject to the jealous mood !) 

A partnership of literary ware ! 

But I am bankrupt now ; and doom*d henceforth 
To drudge, in descant diy, on others' lays ; 

Bar''s, I acknowledge, of unequall'd worth ! 
But what is commentator's happiest praise ? 

That he has furnish'd lights for other eyes, 
Which they, who need them, use, and then despise. 



19^ 



222 



A SPANIEL, CALLED BEAU, 

KTLLIKG A YOUNG BIRD. 

[July 15, 1793.] 

A Spaniel, Beau, that fares like you, 

Well-fed, and at his ease, 
Should wiser be than to pursue 

Each trifle that he sees. 

But you have kill'd a tiny bird, 

Wliich flew not till to-da)". 
Against my orders, whom you heard 

Forbidding you the prey. 

Nor did you kill that ycu might eat 

And ease a doggish pain, 
For him, though chased with furious heat. 

You left where he was slain. 

Nor was he of the thievish sort, 

Or one whom blood allures, 
But innocent was all his sport 

Whom you have torn for yours. 



223 

My dog ! what remedy remains, 
Siuce, teach you all I can, 

I see you, after all my pains, 
So much resemble Man P 



BEAU'S! REPLY- 

Sir, when I flew to seize the bird 

In spite of your command, 
A louder voice than yours I heard, 

And harder to withstand. 

You cried — forbear — but in my breast 
A mightier cried — proceed — 

'Twas nature, Sir, whose strong behest 
Impell'd me to the deed. 

Yet much as nature I respect, 

I ventur'd once to break 
(As you perhaps may recollect) 

Her precept for your sake j 

And when your linnet on a day, 

Passing his prison door. 
Had flutter'd all his strength away, 

And panting press'd the flooi\, 



224 

Well knowing him a sacred thing, 
Not destin'd to my tooth, 

I only kiss'd his ruffled wing. 
And lick'd the feathers smooth. 

Let my obedience then excuse 

My disobedience now, 
Nor some reproof yourself refuse 

From your aggriev'd Bow-wow ; 

If killing birds be such a crime 
(Which I can nardly see) 

'What think you, Sir, of killing Time 
With verse address'd to me ? 



ANSWER 

TO 

Stanzas addi-essed to Lady Hesketh, by Miss Cadtariite 
Fanshawe, in returning; a Poem of Mr. Cowper's, lent 
to her, on condition she should neither show itj nor take 
a Copy. 

[1793.] 

To be remember'd thus is fame, 

And in the first degree ; 
And did the fen like her the same, 

The pres§ might sleep forme. 



225 

So Homer, in the mem'ry stored 
Of many a Greciau belle, 

Was once preserv'd— a richer hoard, 
But never lodg'd so well. 



ipHE SPANISH ADMIRAL COUNT GRA- 
VINA, 



His translating the Author's Song on a Rose^ into Ita- 
lian Verse. 

[1793.J 

My rose, Gravina, blooms anew, 

And, steep'd not now in rain, 
But in Castalian streams by Y ou. 

Will never fade again. 



226 

ON 

FLAXMAN'S PENELOPE. 

[September 1793.] 

The suitors sinnM, but with a fair excuse. 
Whom all this elegance might well seduce; 
Nor can our censure on the husband fall. 
Who, for a wife so lovely, slew them all. 

ON 

RECEIVING HEYNE'S VIRGIL 

FROM MR. HAYLET. 

[October 1793.] 

1 SHOULD have deem'd it once an effort vaia 
To sweeten more sweet Maro's matchless strain, 
But from that errour now behold me free 
Since I receiv'd him as a gift from Thee. 



227 

TO MART. 

[Autumn of 1793.] ' 

The twentieth year is well nigh past, 

Since first our sky was overcast, 

Ah would that this might be the last ! 

My Mary i 

Thy spirits have a fainter flow, 

I see thee daily weaker grow 

'Twas my distress, that brought thee low. 

My Mary ! 

Thy needles, once a shining store, 
For my sake restless heretofore, 
Now rust disus'd, and shine no more, 

My Mary ! 

For though thou gladly wouldst fulfil 
The same kind office for me still. 
Thy sight now seconds not thy will, 

My Mary ! ;>^ 

But well thou play'dst the housewife's part, 
And all thy threads with magick art 
Have wound themselves about this heart. 

My Mary I 



228 

Thy indistinct expressions seera 

Like language uttered in a dream ; 

Yet me they charm, whate'er the theme, 

My Mary ! 

Thy silver locks, once auburn bright, 
Are still more lovely in my sight 
Than golden beams of orient light, 

My Mary ! 

For could I view nor them nor thee, 
What sight worth seeing could I see ? 
The sun would rise in vain for me, 

My Mary ! 

Partakers of thy sad decline, 

Thy hands their little force resign ; 

Yet gently prest, press gently mine, 

My Mary.! 

Such feebleness of limbs thou prov'st, 
That now at every step thou mov'st 
Upheld by two, yet still though lov'st. 

My Mary .' 

And still to love, though prest with ill, 
In A^iiH'ry age to feel no chill, 
With me is to be lovely still, 

My Marv ! 



229 

But ah ! by constant heed I know, 
How oft tlie sadness that I show, 
Transforms thy smiles to looks of wo, 

My Mary 

And should my future lot be cast 
With much resemblance of the past, 
Thy worn-out heart will break at last, 

My Mary 



MONTES GLACIALES, 

IN OCEANO GERMANICO NATANTES. 

[March 11, 1799.] 

En, quffi prodigia, ex oris allata, remotis, 
Oras adveniunt pavefacta per aequora nostras 
?fon equidem prisca? saeclura rediisse videtur 
Pyrrhse, cum Proteus pecus altos visere raontes 
Et Sylvas, egit. Sed tempora vix leviora 
Adsunt, evulsi quando radicitiis alti 
In mare descendunt montes, fluctusque pererrant.- 
Quid vero hoc monstri est magis et mirabile visu ? 
Splendentes video, ceu pulchro ex aere vel auro 
Conflatos, rutilisque accinctos undique geramis, 
Bacca caerulea, et fiammas imitante pyropo. 
Ex oiiente adsunt, ubi gazas optima tellus 
Partiirit omnigenas, quibus seva per omnia sumptu 

20 



2'SO 

Ingenti finxere sibi diademata reges ? 
Vix iioc crediderim. Non fallunt lalla aciitos 
Mercatorurn oculos : prius et quara littora Gangis 
Liquissent, avidis gratissima preeda fuissent. 
Ortos unde putemus ? An ilios Ves'vius atrox 
Protulit, ignivomisve ejecit faucibus .Etna? 
Luce micant propria, Phcebive, per aera puriim 
Nunc stimulanlis eqiios, argentea tela retorquentp 
Phcebi luce micant. Venlis et fluctibus altis 
Appulsi, et rapidis subter currentibiis undis, 
Taudem non fallunt oculos. Capita alta videre 

est 
Multa onerata nive, et canis conspersa pruinis. 
CfEtera sunt glacies. Procul hinc, ubi Bruma 

fere omnes 
Contristat menses, portenta lisec Iiorrlda nobis 
Ilia strui voiuit. Quoties de culmine summo 
Cl'ivoruin fluerent in littora prona, solutai 
Sole, nives, propero tendcntes in mare cursu, 
Ilia gelu fixit. Paulatim attollere sese 
Mirum ccepit opus ; glacieque ab origine rerura 
In ;'^^laciem aggesta sublimes vertice tandem , 
.^qu'^vit monies, non crcscere nescia raoles. 
Sic immensadiu stetit, seternumque sletisset 
Congeries, liominum neque vi neque mobilisarte, 
Littora ni tandem declivia deseruisset, 
Pondere victa suo. Dilabitur. Omnia circum 
Antra et saxa gemunt, subito concussa fragore, 
Dum rult in peiagum, tanquam studiosa natandt, 
Ingens tota strues. Sic Del: s dicitiu oiim, 
FosQla, in ^Egaeo Suita^ee erratica ponto. 



231 

Sed non ex glacie Dclos ; neque torpida Deluin 
Bruma inter rupes genuit nudum stei ilereque. 
Sed vestita herbis erat ilia, ornataque nunquani 
Decidua lauro ; et Deluui dilexit Apollo. 
At vos, errones horrendi, et caliginedigni 
Cimnaeiia, Deus idem odit. iVatalia vestra, 
Nubibus involvens frontem, uon ille tueri 
Sustinuit. Patriuni vos ergo requirite ctelum ! 
Ita ! Redite I Timete moras ; ni lenitei- austro 
Spirante, et nitidas P:)oebo jaculante sagittas 
Hostili vobis, pcreatis gurgite misti ! 



THE ICE ISLANDS, 

SEEN FLOATIXG IK THE GERMAN OCEAN. 

[March 19, 1799.] 

What portents, from what distant region, ride, 
Unseen till now in ours, th' astonish'd tide ? 
In ages past, old Proteus, with his droves 
Of sea-calves, sought the mountains and the 

groves. 
But now, descending whence of late they stood, 
Themselves the mountains seem to rove the flood. 



232 

Dire times were they, fuU-charg'd with human 

woes ; 
And these, scarce less calamitous than those. 
What view we now p More woud'rous still ! Be- 
hold ! 
Like buruish'd brass they shine, or beaten gold; 
And all around the pearl's pure splendour show, 
And all around the ruby's fiery glow. 
Come they from India, where the burning Earth, 
All bounteous, gives her richest treasures birth ; 
And where the costly gems, t mt be im around 
The brows of mightiest potentates, are found ? 
Pfo. Never such a countless dazzling store 
Had [eft, unseen, the Ganges' peopled shore. 
Rapacious hands, and ever-watchful eyes, 
Should sooner far have mark'd and seiz'd the 

prize. 
Whence sprang they then ? Ejected have they 

come 
From Ves'vius, or from Etna's burning womb P 
Thus shine they self-il!um'd, or but display 
The borrow'd splendours of a cloudless day ? 
With borrow'd beams they shine. The gales, 

that breathe 
Now landward, and the current's force beneath, 
Have born them nearer : and the nearer sight, 
AdvriHtag'd more, contemplates them aright. 
Their lofty summits crested high, they show, 
With mingled sleet, and long-incumbent snow. 
The rest is ice. Far hence, where, most severe, 
Bleak winter well-nigh saddens all the year, 



233 

Their infant growth began. He bade arise 

Their uncouth forms, portentous in our eyes. 

Oft as dissolv'd by transient suns, the snow 

Left the tall cliff, to join the flood below ; 

He caught, and curdled with a freezing blast 

The current, ere it reach'd the boundless waste. 

By slow degrees uprose the wondrous pile, 

And long successive ages roU'd the while ; 

Till, ceaseless in its growth, it claira'd to stand, 

Tall as its rival mountains on the land. 

Thus stood, and, unreraovable'by skill, 

Or force of man, had stood the structure still j 

But that, tho' firmly fixt, supplanted yet 

By pressure of its own enormous weight, 

It left the shelvina beach — and, with a sound, 

That shook the bellowing waves and rocks around, 

Self-launch'd, and swiftly, to the briny wave, 

As if instinct with strong desir^ to lave, 

Down went the pond'rous mass. So bards of old, 

How Delos swam th' .^gean deep, have told. 

But not of ice was Delos. Delos bore 

Herb, fruit, and flow'r. She, crown'd with laurel, 

wore, 
Ev'n under wintry skies, a summer smile ; 
And Delos was Apollo's fav'rite isle. 
But, horrid wand'rers of the deep, to you 
He deems Cimmerian darkness only due. 
Your hated birth he deign'd not to survey. 
But, scornful, turn'd his glorious eyes away. 
Hence ! Seek your liome, nor longer rashly dare 
The darts of Phoebus, and a softer air ; 
20 * 



234 

Lest ye regret, too late, your native coast, 
In no congenial gulf for ever lost ! 



THE CAST-AWA.Y. 

[March 20, 1799.] 

Obscurest night involv'd the sky ; 

Th' Atlantick billows roar'd, 
When such a destin'd wretch as I, 

WashM headlong from on board, 
Of friends, of hope, of all bereft. 
His floating home for ever left. 

No braver chief could Albion boast, 
Than he, with whom he went. 

Nor ever ship left Albion's coast, 
With warmer wishes sent. 

He lov'd Ihein both, but both in vain, 

Nor him beheld, nor her again. ■ 

Not long beneath the whelming brine. 

Expert to swim, he lay ; 
Nor soon he felt his strength decline, 

Or courage die away ; 
But wagM with death a lasting strife 
S,upported by despair of life. 



235 

He shouted ; nor his frknds had failM 
To rheck tlic vessel's course, 

But so the furious blast prevaird. 
That, pitiless, perforce, 

They left their outcast mate behind, 

And scudded still before the wind. 

Some succour ye* they could afford ; 

And, such as storms allow. 
The cask, the coop, the floated cord, 

Delay'd not to bestow. 
But he (^they knew) nor ship nor shore, 
Whate'er they gave, should visit more. 

rfor, cruel as it seem'd, could he 
Their haste himself condemn, 

Aware that flight, in such a sea, 
Alone could rescue them ; 

Yet bitter felt it still to die 

Deserted, and his friends so nigh. 

He long survives, who lives an hour 

In ocean, self-upheld : 
And so long he, with unspent pow'r. 

His destiny repell'd : 
And ever as the minutes flew. 
Entreated help, or cried — " Adieu !''* 



236 

At length, his transient respite past, 

His comrades, who before 
Had heard his voice in ey''ry blast, 

Could catch the sound no more. 
For then, by toil subdued, he drank 
The stifling wave, and then he sank. 

No poet wept him : but the page 

Of narrative sincere. 
That tells his name, his worth, liis age 

Is wet with Anson's tear. 
And tears by bards or heroes shed 
Alike immortalize the dead. 

I therefore purpose not, or dream, 

Descanting on his fate, 
To give the melancholy theme 

A more enduring date. 
But misery still delights to trace 
Its 'semblance in another's case. 

No voice divine the storm allay 'd, 
No light propitious shone ; 

When, snatch'd from all effectual aid, 
We perish'd, each alone : 

But I beneath a rougher sea, 

And whelm'd in deeper galis than he. 



*»#^ 



237 
TRANSLATIONS 

FROM 

VINCENT BOURNE. 

THRAX. 

THRErciuM infantem, cum lucern intravit et auras, 
Fletibus excepit niaestus uterque parens. 

Threiciiiiii infantem, cum luce exivit et auris, 
Extulit ad fuiius laetus uterque parens. 

Interea tu Roma ; et tu tibj Graecia plaudens, 
Dicitis, haec vera est Thraica barbaries. 

Laetitiae causam, causamqiie exquirit*^ luctug ; 

Vosque est quod doceat Thrai'ca barbaries. 

THE THRACIAN. 

Thraci an parents, at his birth, 

Mourn their babe with many a tear, 

But with undissembled mirth 

Place him bieathless on his bier. 

Greece and Rome veith equal scorn, 

" O the savages !" exclaim, 
** Vk \ietj[ier t!)ey rejoice oj- mourn, 

Well entitled to the name !" 



238 

But the cause of this concern, 

And this pleasure would they tracp, 
Even they might somewhat learn 

From the savages of Thrace. 



MUTUA BENEVOLENTIA 

PBIMARIA I.EX NATURJE EST. 

Pkr Libyae Androcles siccas errabat arenas j 

Qui vagus iratum fugerat exul herum. 
Lassato tandem fractoque labore viarura. 

Ad scopuli patuit caeca caverna latus. 
Hanc subit ; et placido dedcrat vix membra sopori 

Cum subito immanis rugit ad antra leo ; 
lUe pedem attollens Isesum, et aiiserabile murmur 

Edens, qua poterat voce, precatur opem. 
Perculsus novitate rei, incertusque timore, 

Vix tandem tremulas admovet erro manus ; 
Et spinam explorans (nam fixa invulnere spina 

Haerebat) cauto molliter ungue trahit : 
Continuo dolor onmis abit, teter fluit humor : 

Et coit, absterso sanguine, rupta cutis ; 
Nunc iterum sylvas dumosque peragrat ; et aflfiert 

Providus assifluas hospes ad antra dapes. ^i 
Juxta epulis accumbit homo conviva leonis, ■ ' 

Nee crudos dubitat participare cibos. 
Quis tamen ista ferat desertae taedia vitse ? 

Vix furor ultoris tristior asset heri. 



239 

Devotum certis caput objcctare periclis 

Et patrios slatuit rursus adire lares, 
Traditur hie, fera facturiis spectacula, plebi, 

Acciplt et miserum trislis arena reum. 
Irruit e caveis fors idem impastus et acer, 

Et medicum attonito siispicit ore leo. 
Suspicit, et vetcrem agiioscens veins hospes ami- 
cum 

Decumbit notosblandulus ante pedes. 
Quid vero perculsi animis, stupucre QuiritesP 

Ecquid prodigii, territa Roma, vides? 
Uliius naturaj opus est ; ea sola furorem 

Sumere quae jussit, ponere sola jubet. 

RECIPROCAL KINDNESS 

THE PRIMARY LAW OF NATURE. 

Androcles from his injur'd lord in dread 
Of instant death, to Libya's desert fled. 
Tir'd with his toilsome fligbt, and parch'd with 

heat, 
He spied, at length, a cave;ri's cool retreat , 
But scarce had given to rest his weary frame, 
When hugcst of his kind, a lion came : 
He roar'd approaching : but, the savage din 
To plaintive murmurs chang'd, arriv'd within, 
And with expressive looks his lifted paw 
Presenting, aid implor'd from whom he saw. 
The fugitive, through terrour at a stand, 
Dar'd not awhile afford his trembling hand, 



240 

But bolder grown, at length inherent found * 
A pointed thorn, and drew it from the wound. 
The cure was wrought ; he wip'd the sanious blood. 
And firm and free from pain the lion stood. 
Again he seeks the wilds, and day by day, 
Regales his inmate with the parted prey. 
INor he disdains the dole, though unprepar'd, 
Spread on the ground, and with a lion shar'd. 
But thus to live— still lost — sequester'd still — 
Scarce seem'd his lord's revenge an heavier ill. 
Home ! native home! O might he but repair ! 
He must — he will, though death attends him there. 
He goes, and doomed to perish, on the sands 
Of the full theatre unpitied stands : 
When lo ! the self same lion from his cage 
Flies to devour him, famish'd into rage. 
He flies, but viewing in his purposed prey 
The man, his healer, pauses on his waijr, 
And soften'd by remembrance into sweet 
And kind composure, crouches at his feet. 

Mute with astonishment th' assembly gaze : 
But why, ye Romans ? Whence your mute amaze ? 
All this is natural . nature bade him rend 
Ah enemy ; she bids him spare a frieni. 



412 



MANUALE 

Typographic omni antiquius, nulli uspiam Librorntu 
insertum Catalogo. 

ExiGuus liber est, muliebri creber in usu, 

Per se qui dici bibliotheca potest. 
Copia verborum non est, sed copia rerum ; 

Copia (qiiod nemo deneget) utilior. 
Rubris consuitur panois ; fors texitur auro ; 

Bis sexta ad suinmum pagina claudit opus. 
Nil habet a tergo tilulive aut nominis ; intus 

Thesauros artis servat, et intus opes : 
Intus opes, qua nynipha sinu pulcherrima gestet, 

Quas nive candidior tractet ametque manus, 
Quando instruinentum praesens sibi postulat usu's^ 

Majusve, aut operis pro ratione, minus. 
Et genere et modulo diversa habet anna, gradatim 

Digpsta, ad numeros attenuate suos. 
Primum enchiridii folium niajusciila profert, 

Qualia quae blseso est himine poscat anus. 
Quod sequitur folium, matronis arma niinistrat, 

Dicere quae niagnis proxiraiora licet, 
'fertiura, item quartum, quintumque minuscula 
supplet 

Sed noQ ejusdem singula quaeque loci. 
Disposita ordinihus certis, d'scriraina servant j 

Quae sibi conveniant, seligat unde nurus. 
Ultima quse restant quae multa mioutula nymph* 
21 



242 

Dicit, sunt spxti divita? folii. 
(iuantillo in spatio doctrina O quanta latescit ! 

Qnam tamen obscuram vix brevitate voces. 
Non est interpres, uon est commentarius ullus, 

Aut index ; tain sunt omnia perspicua. 
iEtatemad quamvis, ad captum ita fingitur onineni, 

Ut nihil auxilii postulet inde liber. 
Millia librorum numerat perplura ; nee uUum 

Bodlaei huic jactat bibliotheca parem. 
Millia Caesareo numerat quoque muuere Granta, 

Haec tamen est inter millia tale nihil. 
Non eA, non isti:? author de millibus unus, 

Cui tanta ingenii vis, vel acumen, inest. 

A MANUAL, 

More ancient than the Art of Printing, and not to bt 
found in any Catalogue. 

There is a book, which we may call 

(Its excellence is such) 
Alone a library, tho' small ; 

The ladies thumb it much. 

Words none, things num'rous it contains : 
And, things with words compar'd, 

Who needs be told, that has his brains, 
^ hich merits most regard ? 



243 

Ofttimes its leaves of scarlet hue 

A goiden edging boast; 
Aud opea'd, it displ'iys to view 

Twelve pages at the most. 

Nor name, nor title, stamp'd behind, 

Adorns its outer part ; 
jBut all within't is richly lin'd, 

A magazine of art. 

The whitest hands that secret hoard 

Oft visit : and the fair 
Preserve it in their bosoms stor'd, 

As with a miser's care. 

Thence implements of ev'ry size, 
And form'd for various use, 

(They need but to consult their eyes) 
They readily produce. 

The largest and the longest kind 
Possess the foremost page, 

A sort most needed by the blind. 
Or nearly such from age. 

The full-charg'd leaf, which next epsuef, 

Presents in bright army. 
The smaller sort, which matrons use, 

Not quite so blind as they. 



244 

The third, the fourth, the 6fth supply 
What t^ieir occasions auk, 

Who with a more discerniDg eye 
Perform a nicei task. 

But aiill with regular decrease 
From size to size they fail, 

In ev'ry leaf grow less and less j 
The last are least of all. 

O ! what a fund of genhis, pent 
In narrow space, is here ! 

This volume's method and intent 
How luminous and clear ! 

It leaves no reader at a loss 
Or pos'd, whoever reads : 

No commentator's tedious gloss, 
Nor even index needs. 

Search Bodley's many thousands o'er ! 

No book is treasur'd there, 
Nor yet in Granta's num'rous store 

That may with this compare. 

-lUo ! — Rival none in either host 

Of this was ever seen, 
Or, that contents could justly boast, 

So brilliaet and so keen. 






245 



ENIGMA. 



Parvula res, et acu minor est, et ineptior usu : 

Quotque dies annus, tot tibi drachma dabit. 
Sed licet exigui pretii minimique valorls, 

Ecce, quot artificum postulat ilia manus. 
Unius in primis ciira est conflare metallum j 

In longa alterius ducere fila labor. 
Tertius in partes resecat, quartusque resectum 

Perpolit ad modules attenuatque datos. 
Est quinti tornare caput, quod sextus adaptet; 

Septimus in punctum cudit et exacuit. 
His tandem auxiliis ita res procedit, ut omnes 

Ad nuraeros ingens perficiatur opus. 
QusB tanti ingeuii, quae tanti est summa laborisl' 

Si mihi respondes CEdipe, tota tua est. 



AN ENIGMA. 

A NEEDLE sttiall, as small can be, 
In bulk and use, surpasses me, 

Nor is my purchase dear; 
For little, and almost for nought, 
As many of my kind are bought 

As days are in the year. 



21* 



246 

Tet though but little use we boast, 
And are procur'd at little cost, 

The labour is not light, 
3Vor few artificers it asks, 
All skilful in their sev'ral tasks, 

l"o fashion us aright. 

One fuses metal o'er the fire, 
A second draws it into wire, 

The sheers another plies. 
Who clips in lengths the brazen thread 
For him, who, chafing every shred, 

Gives all an equal size. 

A fifth prepares, exact and round, 

The knob, with which it must be crown'd f 

His follower makes it fast : 
And with his mallet and his file 
To shape the point, employs awhile 

The seventh and the last. 

Now therefore, CEdipus ! declare 
What creature, wonderful, and rare, 

A process, that obtains 
Its purpose with so much ado. 
At last produces ! — tell me true, 

And take me for your pains * 



247 



PASSERES INDIGENCE 

COL. TRIN. CANT. COMMBNSALES. 

Fncola qui norit sedes, aut viserit hospes, 

Newtoni egregii quas celebravit hoaos ; 
Viditque et meminit, laetus fortasse videndo, 

Quam inulta ad mensas advoUtarit avis. 
Ille nee ignorat, nidos ut, vere ineunte, 

Tecta per et forulos, et tabulata struat, 
Ut coram educat teneros ad pabula foetus, 

Et pascat micis, quas det arnica maous. 
Convivas quoties campanae ad prandia pulsus 

Convocat, baud epulis certior hospes adesf. 
Continao jucunda simul vox fertur ad aures, 

Vicinos passer quisque relinquit agros, 
Hospitium ad notum properatur j et ordine stanteg 

Expectant panis fragmina quisque sua. 
Hos taraen, bos omnes, vix uno largior asse 

Sumptus per totam pascit aliique diera. 
Hunc unum, bunc modicum (nee quisquam inviderit 
assem) 

Indigeaae, hospitii jure, merentur aves: 



248 
SPARROWS SELF-DOMESTICATED 

IN URINITY COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE. 

None ever shared the social feast, 
Or as an inmate, or a guest. 
Beneath the celebrated dome, 
Where once Sir Isaac had his home, 
Wlio sdw not (and with some delight 
Perhaps he view'd the novel sight) 
How numVous, at the tables there, 
The sparrows beg their diily fare. 
For there, in every nook, and. cell. 
Where such a family may dwell. 
Sure as the vernal season comes 
Their nests they weave in hope of crumbs, 
Which kindly giv'n, may serve with food 
Convenient their unfeather'd brood; 
And oft as with its summons clear. 
The warning bell salutes their ear, 
Sagacious list'nei's to the sound, 
They flock from all the fields around, 
To reach the hospitable hall. 
None more attentive to the call. 
Arriv'd, the pensionaiy band. 
Hopping and chirping, close at hand, 
Solicit what they soon receive, 
The sprinkled, plenteous donative, 



249 

Thus is a multitude, though larg^, 

Supported at a trivial, charge ; 

A single doit would overpay 

Th' expenditure of every day, 

And who can grudge so small a grace 

To suppliants, natives of the place. 



NULLI TE FACIAS NIMIS SODALEM. 

Palpat heram felis, gremio recubans in anili ; 

Q,uam semel atque iterum Lydia palpat hera. 
Ludum iis sequiturj nam totos exerit ungues, 

Et longo lacerat vulnere felis anum. 
Coutinuo exardens gremio muliercula felem 

Nee gravibus multis excutit absque minis : 
ftuod tamen baud aequum est— si vult cum fete 
jocari, 

Felinum debet Lydia ferrejocum. 



FAMILIARITV DANGEROUS. 

As in her ancient mistress' lap, 

The youthful tabby lay. 
They gave each other many a tap. 

Alike dispQs'd to play. 



250 

But strife ensues. Puss waxes warm, 
And witli piotruded claws 

PItuglis all the length of Lydia's arm, 
Mere wantonness the cause. 

At once, resentful of the deed, 
She shakes her to the ground 

With maay a threat, that sne shall hleei 
With still a deeper wound. 

But, Lydia, bid thy fury rest ; 

It was a venial stroke : 
For she taat will with kittens jest, 

Should bear a kitten's joke. 



AD RUBECULAM INVITATIO. 

HosPES avis, conviva domo gratissima cuivis, 

Quam bruma humanam quserere cogit opem ; 
Hue /• ! iiybeiiii fugias ut frijiora cceli, 

Confuge, ft incolumis sub lare vive meo ! 
Unde luain esuriem releves, alinienta fenestrae 

Apponam, quoties itquereditque dies. 
Usu eteniuj ed'.dici, quod grato alimenta rependee 

Cantu, quse dederit cunque benigna manus. 
Vere novo tepidae spirtKUt cum moUiter aurK, 

Et novus in quavis arbore v^rnat hoiio«^ 



251 

Pro libitu ad lucos redeas, sylvasque revisas, 
Laetaquibus resonut Musica, p-irqiie tuael 

Sin itertim, sin forte iterum, incieiiientia brumae 
Ad mea dilectara tccta reducet avem, 

Esto, redux, grato raenior esto rependere cantu 
Pabula, que dederit cunque benigna manus ! 

Vis hinc harmonife, numerorum bine sacra potestas 

Conspicitur, nusquatn conspicieud:. magis, 
Vini'ula quod stabilis firoi'ssima nectit amoris, 

Vincula vix ionga dissocinnda die. 
Captat, et incantatbiando oblectnoiine Miisa 

Humanum pariter peonigerunique genus; 
IVos homines et aves quotrunqne animantia vivunt 

Nos soli harojonise gens studiosa suoius. 



INVITATION TO THE REDBREAST. 

Sweet bird, whoai the winter constrains — 

And seldom another it can— 
To seek a retreat, while he reigns, 

In the well-shelter'd dwellings of map, 
Who never can seem to intrude, 

Tho' in all places equally free, 
Come, oft as the season is rude, 

Thou art sure to be welcome to me. 



252 

At sight of the first feeble ray, 

That pierces the clouds of the east^ 
To inveigle thee every day 

My windows shall show thee a feast. 
For, taught by experience I know 

Thee mindful of benefit long ; 
And that, thankful for all I bestow, 

Thou wilt pay me with many a song 

Then, soon as the swell of the buds 

Bespeaks the renewal of spring. 
Fly hence, if thou wilt, to the woods, 

Or where it shall please thee to sing; 
And shouldst thou, compell'd by a frost. 

Come again to my window or door. 
Doubt not an affectionate host 

Only pay, as thou pay'dst me before. 

Thus rausick must needs be confest 
, To flow from a fountain above j 
Else how should it work in the breast 

Unchangeable friendship and love ? 
And who on the globe can be found, 

Save your generation and ours, 
That can be delighted by sound, 

Or boast any musical powers P 



253 



STRADiE PHILOMELA. 

Pastorem audivit calamis Philomela caneatem, 

Et voluit teniies ipsa referre luodos ; 
Ipsa retentavit numeros, didicitque reteutans 

Areutuin tida reddere voce nielos. 
Pastor inassuetus rivalem ferre, misellam 

Grandius ad carmen provocat, urget avem. 
Tuque etiam in modulos surgis Fhilomela j sed 
impar 

Viribus, heu, impar, exanimisque cadis. 
Durum certamen ! tristis victoria ! cantum 

Maluerit pastor non superasse tuum. 



STRADA'S NIGHTINGALE. 

The shepherd touch'd his reed ; sweet Philomel 
Essay'd, and oft essayed to catch the strain, 

And treasuring, as on her ear they fell. 
The numbers, echo'd note for note again. 

The peevish youth, who ne'er had found before 
A rival of his skill, indignant heard. 

And soon (for various was his tuneful stor^) 
In loftier tones defied the simple bird. 



254 

She dar'd the task, and rising, as he rose, 

With all the force, that passion gives, inspir*d,- 

Returo'd the sounds awhile, hut in the close, 
Exhausted fell, and at his feet expir'd. 

Thus strength, not skill prevail'd. O fatal strife^ 
By thee, poor songstress, playfully begun j 

And, O sad victory, which cost thy life. 
And he may wish that he had never won ! 



ANUS S^CULARIS, 

quae justam centum aiinorum aetatem, ipso die natali 
explevit, et clausit anno 1728. 

SiNGULAnis prodigiunj O senectse, 
Et novum exemplum diuturnitatis, 
Cujus annorum series in amplum 

desinit orbemi 

Vulgus infelix hominuni, dies en ! 
Coraputo quam dispare computamus ! 
Quam tua a sumina procul est remota 

fiummula nostra 

Pabulum nos luxuriesque lethi, 
Nos, siiiiul uati, incipimus perire, 
Nos statim a cunis cita destinamur 

prseda sepulchre J. 



255 

■©cciilit mors insidias, ubi vix 
Vix opinari est, repldaeve febris 
Vim repentinam, aut male pertinacis 

semlna morbi. 

Sin brevem possit superare vita 
Terminum, quicquid siiperest, vacivum, 
Illud ignavi3 superest et imbe- 

-culibus annis 

Detrahunt multum, minuuntque sorti 
Morbidi questus gemitusque anheli ; 
Ad parem crescunt numerum diesque 

atque dolores. 

Si quis liaec vitet (quotiis ille quisque est !) 
Et gr^du pergendo laborioso 
Ad tuum, fortasse tuum, moretur 

reptilis tevum : 

At videt, moestum tibi saepe visum, in- 
jurias, vim, furta, do!os, et inso- 
lentiam, quo semper eunt» eodem 

ire tenoi e. 

Nil inest rebus novitatis ; et quod 
Uspiam est nuaarum et ineplidrum, 
Wnius volvi videt, et revolvi 

circulus aevL 



256 

Integram setatera tlbi gratulamur j 
Et dari nobis satis sestiniaraus, 
Si tuam, saltern vacuam querelis 

dimidiemus. 



ODE 

ON THE DEATH OF A LADT, 

Who lived one hundred Years, and died on her Birth- 
day, 1728. 

Ancient dame, how wide and vast, 

To 1 race like ours appears, 
RounHeJ to an orb at last, 

All thy multitude of years ! 

We, the herd of human kind, 

Frailer and of feebler pow'ra 5 
We, to nnrrovv bounds connti'd, 

Soon exhaust the sum of ours. 

Deatli's delicious banquet — w? 

Perish even from the womb, 
Swifter than a shadow flee, 

Nourisb'd, but to feed the tomb. 



257 

Seeds of merciless disease 
Lurk in all tliat we enjoy ; 

Some, that waste us by decrees, 
Some, that suddenly destroy. 

And if life o'erleap the bourn, 
Common (o the sons of men ; 

What remains, but that we mourn. 
Dream, and doat, and drivel then ? 

Fast as moons can wax and wane, 
Sorrow comes ; and while we groan. 

Pant with anguish and complain, 
Half our years are fled and gone. 

If a few, (to few 'tis giv'n) 

Ling'ring on this earthly stage, 

Creep, and halt with steps unev'n, 
To the period of an age, 

Wherefore live they, but to see 
Cunning, arrogance, and force, 

Sights lamented much by thee, 
Holding their accustora'd course ? 

Oft was seen, in ages past, 

All that we with wonder view; 

Often shall be to the last ; 
Earth produces uothi.ig new. 

22^ 



258 

Thee we gratiilate ; con'ent, 
Should propitious Hnay'ri design 

Life for u?, as calnily spent, 
Though but half the length of thine. 



VICTORIA FORENSIS. 

Cat o cum Titio lis et vexatio longa 

Sunt de vicini proprietate soli. 
Protjnus ingentes aniraos in jurgia sumunt, 

Utiaque vincendi pars sludiosa nirais. 
Lis tumet in schcdulas, et jam verbosior, et jam . 

Nee verbura quodvis asse minoris emunt. 
Prsptert'unt menses, et terminus alter et alter ; 

Q,uisque novos sumptus, alter et alter, habent. 
Ille querens, hie respondens pendente vocatur 

Lite ; sed ad finem litis uterque quereu*. 



THE CAUSE WON. 

Two neighbours furiously dispute ; 
A field— the subject of the suit. 
Trivial the spot, yet such the rage. 
With which the combatants engage, 
'Twere hard to tell, who covets most 
The prize at whatsoever cost* 



259 

■The pleadings swell. Words ''till suffice 
No single word bur has its price. 
No term hut yields some liii pretence, 
For novel and increas'd expense. 

Defendant thus becomes a name. 
Which he, that bore it, may dibclaim ; 
Since both, in one description blended, 
Are plaintiflFs when the suit is ended. 



BOMBYX. 

Fine sub Aprilis Bombyx excluditur ovo 

Reptilis exiguo corpore vermiculus, 
Frondibus hie iiiori, volvox dum fiat adultus, 

Gnaviter incurabens, dum satietur, edit. 
Crescendo ad just urn cum jam maturuit aevum, 

Incipit artitici stamine textor opus: 
Filaque condensans filis, orbem implicat orbi, 

Et sensim in gyris conditus ipse iatet. 
Inque cadi teretem formam se colligit, unde 

Egrediens pennas papilionis habet ; 
Fitqup parens tandem, foetumque reponit inoyis ; 

Hoc demum extremo munere functus obit. 
Quotquot in hac nostra spirant animalia terra 

Nulli est vel brevior vita, vel utilior. 



2^ 



THE SILK WORM. 

The beams of April, ere it goes, 

A worm, scarce visible, disclose ; 

All winter long content to dwell 

The tenant of his native shell. ^ 

The same prolifick season gives 

The sustenance by which he lives. 

The mulb'rry leaf, a simple store. 

That serves him— till he needs no more! 

For, his dimensions once complete, 

Thencefo th none ever sees him eat; 

Tho', till his growing lime be past, 

Scarce ever is he seen to fast. 

That hour arriv'd, his work begins. 

He spins and weaves, and weaves and spins j 

Till circle upon circle wound 

Careless around him and around. 

Conceals him with a veil, tho' slight, 

Impervious to the keenest sight. 

Thus self enclos'd, as in a cask, 

At length he finishes his task : 

And, though a worm, when he was lost, 

Or caterpillar at the most. 

When next we see him, wings he wears, 

And in papilio-pomp appears ; 

Becomes oviparous ; supplies 

With future worms and future flies, 

The next ensuing year j— aud diep ! ^ 



261 

Well were it for the world, if all, 
Who cr^'ep about this earthly ball, 
Though shorter-li"'M than mopt he be, 
Were useful iu their kind as he. 



INNOCENS PR^DATRIX. 

Sedula per campos nuUo defessa labore. 

In cella ut stippt mella, vagatur apis, 
Purpureiim vix florem opifex praetervo'jt unum, 

Innumeras inter qiras alit horlus opes ; 
Herbula gramincis vix una itin?^scitur agris, 

Thesauri unde aliquid non studiosa lojfit. 
A flore ad florem transit, mollique vohudo 

Delibat tactu 'tuave quod intup nabent. 
Omnia delibat, parce sed et omnia, t'urti 

Vt ne vel minimum videris indicium : 
Omnia degustat tam parce, ut gratia nulla 
Floribus, ut nullus diminuaiur odor. 
Won ita praedantur modice bruchjque et erncaej 

Non ista hortorum maxima pesti-s, avps ; 
Non ita raptoies corvi, quorum improba rostra 

Despojiant agros, pfiTodiuntqiie sata. 
Succos immiscens succi.«. it i sunviter omnes 

1 t-nip?rat, ut dederit chyntia nulla parei. 
Vix furlum est ilrid, dicive injurti debet. 

Quod cera, et multo meile rependit apig. 



262 



THE INNOCENT THIEF. 

Not a flow'r can be found in the fields, 
Or the spot that we till for our pleasure, 

From the largest to least, but it yields 
The bee, uever wearied, a treasure. 

Scarce any she quits unexplored, 
With a diligence truly exact ; 

Yet, steil what she may for her hoard, 
Leaves evidence none of the fact. 

Her lucrative task she pursues, 
And pilfers with so much address, 

That none of their odour they lose, 
Nor charm by their beauty the less. 

Kot tl)us inoffensively preys 

The canker worm, indwelling foe ! 

His voracity not thus allays 

The sparrow, the finch, or the crow. 

The worm, more expensively fed, 
The pride of the garden devours j 

And birds peck the seed from the bed. 
Still less to be spar'd than the flow'rs. 

But she with such delicate skill. 
Her pillage so fits for her uee, 



263 

That the chemist in vain with his stilt 
Would labour the like to produce. 

Then grudge not her temperate meals. 
Nor a benefit blame as a theft ; 

Since, stole she not all that she steals, 
Neither honey nor wax would be left. 



DENNERI ANUS.* 

DocTtrM anus artificem juste celebrata fatetur, 

Denneri pinxit quam studiosa mauus. 
Nee stupor est oculis, fronti nee ruga severa, 

Flaccida nee sulcis pendet utrinque gena. 
Nil habet illepidura, morosum, aut triste tabella^ 

Argentum capitis praeter, anile nihil. 
Apparent nivei vitta? sub niargine eani, 

Fila colorati qualia Seres habent ; 
Lanugo mentum, sed quae tenuissima, vestit, 

MoUi.^jque, et qualis Persica mala tegit. 
Nulla vel e minimis fugiunt spiracula visum ; 

At neque lineolis de cutis ulla latet. 
Spectatutg veniunt, novitas quos allicit usquam, 

Quosque vel ingenii fama, vel artis amor. 

* Dill publico fuit spectaculo egregia haec tabula in 
«tek Palatinaexteriori, juxta fanum Westmona^teriense. 



264 



Adveniunt juvenes ; ct anus si possit amari, 

Dennere, agiioscunt hoc meruisse tuara. 
Adveaiunl hilares nymphae ; similenique senectam 

Tain pulchr^m etplacidamdentsibi lala, rogant. 
Matroiise adveniunt, vetiilaeque fatentur in ore 

Quod nihil horieudum, ridiculumve vident. 
Quaotus iionos arti, per quam placet ipsasenectus ; 

Quae tacit, ut nyoiphis invideatur anus ! 
Pictori cedit quae gloria, cum nee Apelli 

Majorem famam det Cytherea suo ! 



DENNER'S OLD WOMAN. 

In this mimick form of a matron in years, 
How plainly the pencil of Denner appears ! 
The matron herself, in whose old age we see 
Not a trace of decline, what a wonder is she ! 
No dimness of eye, and no cheek h.inging low, 
No wrinkle, or deep lu; row M frown on the brow ! 
Her forehead indeed is here circled around 
"VVith locks like the riband, with which they are 

bound ; 
While glossy and smooth, and as soft as the skin 
Of a delicate pe;ich, is the down of her chin ; 
But nothing unpleasant, or sad, or severe, 
Or that indicates life in its winter — is here. 
Yet ?.i] ifi express'd,with fidelity due, 
Nor a pimple, or freckle, conceal'd from the view. 



^ 



265 

Many fond of new sights, or who cherish a taste 
For the lahouis of art, to the spectacle haste; 
The youths all agree, that coirld old '^.ge iospire 
The passion of love, hers would kindle the fire, 
And the matrons with pleasure confess that they 

see 
Ridiculous notliing or hideous in thee. 
The nymphs for themselves scarcely hope a de- 
cline, 
O wonderful woraan ! as placid as thine. 

Strange magick of art! which the youth can 
engage 
To peruse, half-enamour'd, the features of age j 
And force from the virgin a sigh of despair, 
That she when as old, shall be equaUy fair ! 
How great is the glorj'' that Denner has gain'd, 
Since Apelles not more for his Venus obtaia'd I 



LACRYIVL^ PICTORIS. 

Infantem audivit puerum, sua gaudia, Apelles 

Intompestivo fate obiise diem. 
lUe, licet tristi pcrculsus imagine morti?, 

Profcrri in medium corpus inario jubet, 
Et calaniura, et succos posccns, "Hos accipe 
luctt.i?, 

23 



266 

" Mcerorcm hunc," dixit, "nate, parentis 
babe !" 
Dixit ; et, ut clausit, clauses depinxit ocellos ; 

Officio pariter fidiis utrique pater : 
Fronteinque et crines, nee adhuc pallentia forraan» 

Osctila, adiimbravit lugubre pictor opus, 
Perge parens, racerendo tuos expendere luctus j 

Nondum opus absolvit triste suprema iPanus. 
Vidit adbuc molles genitor super oscula risusi 

Vidit adbuc veneres irrubuisse genis, 
Et teneras raptim veneres, blandosque lepores, 

Et tacitos risus transtulit in taKulam. 
Pingendo desiste tuum signare dolorem ; 

Filioli longum vivet inoago tui; 
Vivet, et aeterna vives tu iaude, nee arte 

Vincendus pictor, nee pietate pater. 



THE TEARS OF A PAINTER 

Apelles, hearing that his boy, 
Had just expired — his only joy ! 
Altho' the sight with anguish tore him. 
Bade place his dear remains before hini» 
He seiz'd his brush, his colours spread ; 
And — " Oh ! my child, accept," — he said, 
" ('Tls all that I can now bestow,) 
" TWs tribute of a father's wo !" 



^67 

Then, faithful to the two-fold part, 
Both of his feelings and his art, 
He clos'd his eyes, with tender care, 
And formed at ouce a fellow pair. 
His brow, with amber locks beset, 
And lips he drew, not livid yet ; 
And shaded all, that he had done, 
To a just image of his son. 

Thus far is well. But view again, 
The cause of thy paternal pain ! 
Thy melancholy task fulfil ! 
It needs the last, last touches still. 
Again his pencil's powers he tries, 
For on his lips a smile he spies : 
And still his cheek unfaded shows 
The deepest damask of the rose. 
Then, heedful to the finish'd whole. 
With fondest eagerness he stole, 
Till scarce himself distinctly knew 
The cherub copied from the true. 

Now, painter cease ! Thy task is done. 
Long lives this image of thy son; 
Nor short-lived shall th(^ glory prove. 
Or af Ihy labour, or thy love. 



268 



SPE FINIS. 

Ad dextratn, ad laevam, porro, retro, itqne re- 
ditque, 

Deprensiim in laqueo quem labyrinthus habet, 
Et legit et relegit gressus, sese explicet unde, 

Perplexum quaerens unde rcvolvat iter. 
Sta modo, respira paulum, siniul accipe filuin ;■ 

Certius et nielius non Ariadne dabit. 
Sic te, sic solum expedies errore ; viarum 

PrincipiuiQ invenias, id tibi fmis erit. 



THE MAZE. 

From right to left, and to and fro, 
Caught in a labyrinth you go, 
And turn, and turn, and turn again, 
To L^olve the my$t'ry, but in vain j 
fStand still, and breathe, and take from me 
A clew, that soon shall set you free ! 
Not Ariadne, if you meet her, 
Herseir could serve you with a better. 

You eiitei'd easily !ind where 

And make, with ease, your exit there I 



2m 



NEMO MISER NISI COxMP^RATUS. 

*' Qcis full infelix adeo ! quis perditus atque !" 

Conq'.ieritur moesto carmine tristis ainans. 
Non uoviis hie qiipstus, rarove aiiditus ; ainantes 

Deserti etspreti mJlle quenintur idem. 
Fatura decanlas quod tu miserabile, inultus 

Deplorat, muito cum Coiydooe, Stiephon. 
Si tua cum reliquis confertur arnica puellis, 

Non ea vel sola est ferrea, tuve miser. 



kO SORROW PECULIAR TO THE SUF- 
FERER. 

The lover, in melodious verses, 
His singular distress rolicarses. 
Still closiug witii a rueful cry, 
" U as ever such a wretch as I !" 
Yes ! Thousands have eudui'd before 
All thy distress ; some, hapl}' more. 
Unnumher'd Corydons complain. 
And Strephons, of the like disdain ; 
And if thy Chloe be of steel. 
Too deaf to Iiear, too hard to feel ; 
Not her alone that censure fits, 
Nor thou alone hast lost thy wit«. 

23 # 



2r« 



UMAX, 

Frondibus, et pomis, herbisque tenaciter hseret 

Llmax, et secum portat ubique domum 
Tutus in hac sese occultat, si quando periclura 

ImiTiinet, aut subitae decidit imber aquse. 
Coniua velleviter taogas, seprotinus in se 

Colligit, in proprios contra liiturque lares. 
Secum habitat quacunque habitat ; sibi tota su- 
pellex ; 

Solae quas adamat, quasque requirit opes. 
Secum potat, edit, doriuit ; sibi in aedibus iisdeno 

Conviva et comes est, hospes el hospitium. 
Liraacem, quacumquesiet, quacumque moretur, 

Siquis eum quaerat, dixeris esse domi. 



THE S.\AIL. 

To grass, or leaf, or fruit, or wall, 
The Snail sticks close, nor fears to fall, 
As if he grew there, house and all 



Together 



Within that hou^e secure he hides, 
When danger immiueiit betides 
Of storm, or other harm besides 



Of weather. 



271 

Give but his horns the slightest touch, 
His self-collecting power is such, 
He shrinks into his house, with much 

Displeasure. 

Where'er he dwells, he dwells alone. 
Except liimself has chattels none, 
Well satisfied to be his own 

Whole treasure. 

Thus, hermit-like, his life "he leads, 
Nor partner of his banquet needs, ' 
And if he meets one, only feeds 

The faster. 

Who seeks him must be worse than blind, 
(He and Iiis house are so combin'd) 
If, finding it, he fails to find 

Its master. 



EQUES ACADEMICUS. 

Galcahi instruitur juvenis; geminove vel uno, 
Hand multum, aut ocreis cnjus, et uode, refert j 

Fors fortasse siio, fortasse aliunde, fiagello ; 
Qirantol-icunque cui, pars timen ipse sui. 

Sic rile armitus, quinis (et forte rriinoris) 

Conductum solidis scandere gestit equum. 



272 

Laetus et inipavidiis qua fert fortuna (volantem 

Cernite) quadrupedem pungit et urget iter . 
Admisso cursu, per rura, per oppida fertur: 

Adlatrant catuli, multaque ridet anus. 
Jamque ferox plagis, erecta ad verbera dextra 

Calce cruentata lassat utrumque latus. 
Impete sed tanto vixdum confecerit ille 

Millia propositae sexve novemve viae, 
Viribus absumptis, fesstusque labore, caballns 

Sternit in immundum seqne equitemque latum. 
Vectus iter peraget curru plauslrove viator .f* 

Proh pudor et faciuus ! cogitur ire pedes. 
Si, nee inexpertum, seniorem junior audis, 

Quae sint exignae commoda disce niorae. 
Quara tibi prsecipio, brevis est, sed regula ccrta j 

Ocyus ut possis pergere Icntus eas ! 



THE CANTAB. 

With two spurs or one ; and no great matter which, 
Boots bought, or boots> borrowed, a whip or a 

switch, J 

Five shillings or less for the hire of his beast, 
Paid part into hand ; — you must wait for the rest. 
Thus equipt, Academicus climbs up his horse, 
And out they both sally for better or worse ; 
His heart void'of fear, and as light as a feather ; 
And in violent haste to go not knowing whither •. 
Thro' the fields and the towns, (see !) he scampers 

•along, 



273 

And is look'd at, and laugh'd at, by old and by 

younj'. 
Till at length overspent, and liis sides smeared 

with blood, 
D^wn tumbles !)is horse, man and all in tlfe mud. 
In a waggon or chaise, shall he finish his route ? 
Oh ! scandalous fate ! he must do it on foot. 

Young gentlemen, hear ! — I am older than you ! 
The advice, that I give, I have proved to be true. 
Wherever your journey may be, never doubt it, 
The faster you ride, you're the longer about it. 



274 



THE SALAD. 

BY 

VIRGIL. 

[June 8th 1799.] 

TitE winter-niffht now well-nigh worn away. 
The wakeful cock proclaim'd appro.iching day, 
When Simulus, poor tenant of a farm 
Of narrowest limits, heard the shrill alarm, 
Yawn'd, stretch'd his limbs, and anxious to pro- 
vide 
Against the pangs of hunger unsupplied, 
"^y slow degrees his tatter'd bed forsook, 
And poking in the dark exploi'd tlie nook. 
Where embeis slept with ashes heap'd around, 
And with burnt fingers-ends the treasure found. 

It chanc'd that from a brand beneath his nose, 
Sure proof of latent fire, some > moke arose ; 
When trimming with a pin th' incrusted tow, 
And stooping it towards the coals below. 
He toils, with cheeks distended, to excite 
The ling'ring flame, and gains at length a light. 
With prudent heed he spread? his hand before 
The quiv'ring lamp, and opes his gran'ry door. 



\ 275 

Small was his stock, but taking for the day, 
A nieasur'd stint of twice eight pounds away, 
With these his mill he seeks. A shelf at hand, 
Fixt in the wall, affords his lamp a stand : 
Then baring both his arms — a sleeveless coat 
He girds, the rough exuviae of a goat : 
And with a rubber, for that use design'd, 
Cleansing his mill within — begins to grind ; 
Each hand has its employ ; lab'ring amain, 
This turns the winch, while that supplies thegreuQ. 
The stone revolving rapidly, now glow?, 
And the bruis'd corn a mealy current flows j 
While he, to make his heavy labour light, 
Tasks oft his left hand to relieve his right ; 
And chants with rudest accent, to beguile 
His ceaseless toil, as lude a strain the while. 
And now, " Dame Cybale, come forth !" he cries j 
But Cybale, still slumb'ring, nought replies. 

From Afric she, the swain's sole serving-maid, 
Whose face and form alike her birth betray'd. 
Wilh woolly locks, lips tumid, sable skin. 
Wide bosom, udders flaccid, belly thin, 
Legs slender, broad and most misshapen :eet, 
Chapp'd into chinks, and parched with solar heat. 
Such, summoned oft, she came; at his command 
Fresh fuel heap'd, the sleeping embers fann'd. 
And made in haste her siuim'ring skillet steam, 
Replenish'd newly frofn the npighboiiriog stream. 



276 

The labours of the mill perfonn'd, a sieve 
'The mingled flour and bran must next receive. 
Which shaken oft, shoot?. Ceres through i-efin'd 
And better dress'd, her husks all left behind. 
This done, at once, his future plain repast, 
Unleaven'd, on a slnven bo-ird he cast. 
With tepid lymph, first largely soak'd it all, 
Then gather'd it with both hands to a ball, 
And spreading it again with both hands wide, 
With sprinkled salt thesliffcn'd mass supplied; 
At length, the stubborn substance, duly wroughty 
Takes from his palms impressed the shape it oughi^ 
Becomes aa orb — and quarter'd into shares, 
The faithful n.ark of just division bears. 
Last, on his hearth it finds convenient space. 
For Cybale before had swept the place, 
And there, with tiles and embers overspread, 
She leaves It — reeking in its sultry bed. 



Nor Simulus, while Vulcan thus, alone, 
His part perfonn'd, proves heedless of his ovrn, 
Butsedulous, not merely to subdue 
His hunger, but to please his palate too. 
Prepares more sav'ry food. His chimney-side 
Could boast no gammon, salted well, and dried, 
And hook'd behind him ; but sufTJclent store 
Of bundled anise, and a cheese It horej 
A broad round cheese, wiiirh, thro' its centrip 

strung 
With a tough broom twig, In the comer huiig; 



I 



277 

"Hie prudent hero therefore with address, 
And quick despatch, now seeks another mess-. 

Close to his cottage lay a garden ground, 
With reeds and osiers sparely girt around: 
Small was the spot, but liberal to produce ; 
Nor wanted aught that serves a peasant's use, 
And sonoetimes ev'n the rich would borrow thence, 
Although its tillage was hi'^ sole expense. 
For oft, as from his toils abroad he ceas'd. 
Home-bound by weather, or some stated feast, 
His debt of culture here he duly paid. 
And only left the plough to wield the spade. 
He knew to give each plant the soil it needs, 
To drill the ground, and cover close the seeds j 
And could with ease compel the wanton rill 
To turn, imd wind, obedient to his will. 
There flourish'd star-wort, and the branching 

beet, 
The sorrel acid, and the mallow sweet, 
The skirret, and the leek's aspiring kind. 
The noxious poppy-- quenchei of the mind I 
Salubrious sequel of a sumptuous board, 
The lettuce, and t!ie long huge-bellied gourd ! 
But these (for none his appetite control! 'd 
With stricter sway) the thrifty rustick sold 
With broom-twigs neatly bound, each kind aparty 
He bore them ever to the publick mart : 
Whence, laden still, but with a lighter load, 
Of cash well earn'd, he took his homeward road. 

24 



278 

Expending seldom, ere he quitted Rome, 
His gains, in flesh-meat for a feast at home. 
There, at no cost, on onions, rank and red, 
Or the curl'd endive's bitter leaf, he fed : 
On scallioDS slic'd, or with a sensual gust, 
On rockets — foul provocatives of lust ! 
Nor evenshunn'd with smarting gums to press 
JVasturtium — pungent face distorting mess ! 

Some such regale now also in his thought, 
With hasty steps his garden-ground he sought ; 
There delving with his hands, he first displac'd 
Four plants of garlick, large, and rooted fast j 
The tender tops of parsley next he culls, 
Then the old rue-bush shudders as he pulls, 
And coriander last to these succeeds, 
That hangs on slightest threads her trembling 
seeds. 

Plac'd near his sprightly fire he now demands 
The mortar at his sable servant's hands j 
When stripping all his girlick first, he tore 
Th' exteriour coats, and cast them on the floor, 
Then cast away with like contempt the skin, 
Flimsier concealment of the cloves within. 
These searcli'd, and perfect found, he one by one, 
Rins'd, and dispos'd within the hollow stone. 
Salt added, and a lump of salted cheese, 
With his injected herbs he cover'd these, 



279 

And lucking with his left his tunick tight, 
And seizing fast the pestle with his right, 
The garlick bruising first he soon express'd. 
And mijc'd the various juices of the rest. 
He grinds, and by degrees his herbs below 
Lost in each other their own pow'rs forego, 
And with the cheese in compound, to the sight 
Nor wholly green appear, nor wholly white. 
His nostrils oft the forceful fume resent, 
He curs'd full oft his dinner for its scent, 
Or with wry faces, wiping as he spoke 
The trickling tears, cried "vengence on the 

smoke." 
The work proceeds : not roughly turns he now 
The pestle, but in circles smooth and slow, 
With cautious hand, that grudges what it spills. 
Some drops of olive oil he next instils. 
Then vinegar with caution scarcely less. 
And gathering to a ball the medly mess, 
Ijast, with two fingers frugally applied, 
Sweeps the small remnant from the mortar's 

side. 
And thus complete in figure and in kind. 
Obtains at length the Salad he design'd. 

And now black Cybale before him stands. 
The cake drawn newly glowing in her hands. 
He glad receives it, chasing far away 
All fears of famine for the passing day j 



^ 280 

JHis legs enclos'd in buskins, and his head 
In its tough casque of leather, forth he led 
And yok'd his steers, a dull obedient pair, 
Then drove afield, and plunged the pointed share. 



281 

TRANSLATIONS OF GREEK VERSES, 

[Begun August 1799.] 

FROM 

THE GREEK OF JULIANUS. 

A Spartan, his companions slain, 

Alone from battle fled, 
His mother kindling with disdain 

That she had borne him, struck him dead : 

For courage, and not birth alone, 
In Sparta, testifies a son ! 



THE SAME BY PALLADAS. 

A Spartan 'scaping from the fight, 
His mother met him in his flight, 
Upheld a faulchion to his breast. 
And thus the fugitive address'd : 

" Thou canst but live to blot with shame 
^' Indelible thy mother's name, 

24 # 



282 

" While ev'ry breath, that thou shalt draw, 

" Offends against thy country's law j 

" But, if thou perish by this hand, 

" Myself indeed throughout the land, 

" To my dishonour, shall be known 

" The mother slill of such a son ; 

" But Sparta will be safe and free, 

" And that shall serve to comfort me.'* 



AN EPITAPH. 

My name— my country — what are they to thee? 
What, whether base or proud, my pedigree ? 
Perhaps I far surpass'd all other men — 
Perhaps I fell below them all— what then ? 
SufEce it, stranger ! that thou seest a tomb— 
Thou know'st its use— it liides — no matter whom. 



ANOTHER. 

Take to thy bosom, gentle earth, a swain 
With much hard labour in thy service worn ! 
He set the vines, that clothe yon ample pl£uo, 
And he these olives, th at the vale Sidorn. 



, 283 

He fill'd with grain the glebe ; the rills he led 
Thro' this green herbage, and those fruitful bow'rs; 
Tliou, therefore, earth ! lie lightly oa his head, 
His hoary head, and deck his grave with flow'rs. 



ANOTHER. 

pAiNTHR, this likeness is too strong, 
And we shall mourn the dead too long. 



ANOTHER. 

At threescore winters' end I died 
A cheerless being, sole and sad ; 
The nuptial knot I never tied, 
And wish my father never had. 



BY CALLIMACHUS. 

At mom we plac'd on his funereal bier 
Young Melanippus ; and at eventide, 
Unable to sustain a loss so dear, 
By her owa hand bis blooming sister died. 



284 

Thns Aristippus moum'd his noble race, 
Annitiilated by a double blow, 
Nor son could hope, nor daughter more t'embraceii 
And all Cyrene saddened at his wo. 



ON MILTIADES. 

M'.LTiADES ! thy valour best 
(Altliough ill every region known) 
The rtien of Persia can attest, 
Taught by thyself at Marathon. 



ON AN INFANT. 

Bewajl not much, my parents ! me, the prey 
Of ruthless Ades, and sepulchred here. 
An infant, in my fifth scarce finished year, 
He found all sportive, innocent, and gay. 
Your young Callimachus ; and if I knew 
Not many joys, my griefe were also few. 



BY HERACLIDES. 

In Cnidusborn, the consort I became 
Of Euphron. Aretimias was my oame. 



285 

His bed I shar'd, nor prov'd a barren bride, 
But bor«' two children at a birth, .'nd died. 
One child I leave to solace and uphold 
Euphron hereafter, when infirm and old. 
And one, for his remembrance sake, I bear 
To Pluto's realm, till he shall join me there. 



ON THE REED. 

I WAS of late a barren plant, 

Useles.s, insignificant, 
Nor fig, nor grape, nor apple bore, 
A native of the marshy shore ; 
But eather'd for poetick use. 
And plung'd into a sable jnice, 
Of which ray modicum I sip, 
With narrow mouth and slender Up, 
At once, although by nature dumb, 
All eloquent I have become, 
And speak with fluency untired, 
As if by Phcebus' self inspired. 



TO HEALTH. 

Eldest born of pow'rs divine ! 
Blest Hygeia ! be it mine. 
To enjoy what thou canst give, 
Aqd henceforth with thee to live: 



28 6 

For in poW*r if pleasure be, 
Wealth, or num'rous progeny. 
Or in amorous embrace, 
Where no spy infests the place ; 
Or in aught, that Heav'n bestows 
To alleviate human woes. 
When the wearied heart despairs 
Of a respite from its cares ; 
These and ev'ry true delight 
Flourish only in thy sight j 
And the sister Graces Three 
Owe, themselves, their youth to thee* 
Without whom we may possess 
Much, but never happiness. 



ON THE ASTROLOGERS. 

Th' astrologers did all alike presage 
My uncle's dying in extreme old age, 
One only disagreed. But he was wise. 
And spoke not, till he heard the fuo'ral cries. 



ON AN OLD WOMAN. 

Mycilla dyes her locks 'tis said ; 

But 'tis a foul aspersion, i / 

She buys them black ; they therefore need" 

No subsequent immersion-. 



287 



ON INVALIDS. 



Far happier are the dead, methinks, than they, 
Who look for death, and fear it ev'ry day. 



ON FLATTERERS. 

No mischief worthier of our fear 

In nature can be found, 
Than friendship, in ostent sincere, 

But hollow and unsound. 
For lull'd into a dangerous dream 

We close infold a foe, 
Who strikes, when most secure we seem, 

Th' inevitable blow. 



ON THE SWALLOW. 

Attick maid ! with honoy fed, 
Bear'st thou to thy callow brood 

Yonder locust from the mead, 
Destin'd their delicious food ! 

Ye have kindred voices clear, 
Ye alike unfold the wing, 

Migrate hither, sojourn here. 
Both attendant en the spring ! 



28 S 

Ah for pity drop the prize ; 

Let it not, with truth, be said. 
That ;i songster gasps and dies, 

Tliat a songster may be fed . 



ON LATE ACQUIRED WEALTH. 

Poor in my youtli, and in life's later scenes 

Rich to no end, I curse my natal hour ; 
Who nought enjoy^l, while young, denied the- 
means ; 
And nought, when old, enjoyM, denied the 
pow'r. 



ON A TRUE FRIEND. 

Hast thou a friend ? Thou hast indeeel 

A ricli and large supply, 
Treasure to serve your eveiy need, 

Weil manag'd, till you die. 



ON A BATH, BY PLATa 

D^XCytherea to the skies 

From this pellucid lymph arise ? 

Or was it Cytherea's touch, 

When bathing here, that made it such ? 



289 

ON A FOWLER, BY ISIDORUS. 

With seeds and birdlime, from the desert air, 
Eumeliis gither'd free, though scanty, fare. 
No lordly patron's hand he deign'd to kiss. 
Nor lux'ry knew, save liberty, nor bliss. 
Thrice thirty years he liv'd, and to his heirs 
His seeds bequeath'd, liis birdlime, and his snares. 



ON NIOBE. 

Charon ! receive a family on board 
Itself sufficient for thy cras^y yawl j 

Apollo and Diana, for a word 

By me too proudly spoken, slew us all. 



ON A GOOD MAN. 

TRAv'trER, regret not me ; for thou shalt find 

.Just cause of sorrow none in my decease, 
AVho, dying, children's children left behind, 

And with one wife liv'd many years in peace : 
Three virtuous youtlis espous'dmy daughters three, 

And oft their infants in my bosom lay, 
Nor saw I one, of all deriv'd from me, 

Touch'd by disepse, or torn by death away. 



290 

Their duteous hands my fun'ral rites bestowed, 
And me, by blanieless manners fitted well 

To seek it, sent to the serene abode, 
Where shades of pious men for ever dwell. 



ON A MISER. 

They call thee rich — I deem thee poor, 
Since, if thou dar'st not use thy store, 
But sav'st it only for thine heirs. 
The treasure is not thine, but theirs. 



ANOTHER. 

A MISER, traversing his house, 

Espied, Unusual there, a mouse, 

And thus his uninvited guest. 

Briskly inquisitive, address'd : 

" Tell rae, my dear, to what cause is it 

" I owe this unexpected visit?" 

The mouse her host obliquely ey'd, 

And smiling, pleasantly replied, 

" Fear not, good fellow, for your hoard ! 

" I come to lodge, and not to board." 



291 



ANOTHER. 

Art thou some individual of a kind 
Long-live^l by nature as the rook or hind !' 
Heap treasure then, for if thy need be such, 
Thou hast excuse, and scarce canst heap too much. 
But man thou seem'st, clear therefore from thy 

breast 
This lust of treasure — folly at the best ! 
For why siiould'st thou go wasted to the tomb, 
To fatten with thy spoils thou know'st not whom ? 



ON FEMALE INCONSTANCY. 

Rich, thou hadst many lovers — poor, hast none, 
So surely want extinguishes the flame, 

And she who call'd thee once her pretty one. 
And her Adonis, now inquires thy name. 

Where wast thou born, Sosicrates, and where 

In what strange country can thy parents live 

Who seem'st, by thy complaints, not yet aware, 
Tnat waot's a crime no woman can foigive? 



292 



ON THE GRASSHOPPER. 

Happy songster, perch'd above, 
On the summit of the gi'ove, 
Whom a dew-drop cheers to sing 
With the freedom of a king. 
From thy perch survey the fields 
Where prolifick nature yields 
Nought, that, willingly as she, 
Man surrenders not to thee. 
For hostility or liate 
None thy pleasures can create. 
Thee it satisfies to sing 
Sweetly the return of spring, 
Herald of the genial hours, 
Harming neither herbs nor flow'rs. 
Therefore man thy voice attends 
Gladly — thou and he are friends ; 
Nor thy never-ceasing strains 
Phcebus or the muse d isdains 
As too simple or too long, 
For themselves inspire the song. 
Earth-born, bloodless, undecaying, 
Ever singHig, sporting, playing, 
What has nature else to show 
Godlike in its kind as thou !' 



293 



ON HERMOCRATIA. 

Hermocratia nam'd save only one 

Twice fifteen births 1 bore, and buried none ; 
For neither Phoebus pierc'd my thriving joy.«, 

Nor Dian she my girls, or he ipy boys. 

But Diau rather, when my daughters lay 
In parturition, chas'd their pangs away. 
And all my sons, by Phoebus' bounty, shar'd 
A vig'rous youth, by sickness unimpair'd. 
O Niobe ! far less prolifick ! see 
Thy boast against Latona sham'd by me ? 



FROM MENANDER. 

Fond youth ! who dream'st, that hoarded gold 

Is needful, not alone lo pay 
For all thy various items sold, 

To serve the wants of every day j 

Bread, vinegar, and oil, and meat, 
For sav'ry viands season'd high ; 

But somewhat more rnjportant yet 

I tell thee what it cannot buy. 

No treasure, hadst thou more amass'd. 
Than fame to Tantalus assign'd, 

Would save thee from a tomb at last, 
Bot thou must leave it all beiiind. 



294 

I give thee, therefore, coun-el wise j 
Confide not vainly in thy store. 

However large much less despise 

Others comparatively poor ; 

But in thy more exalted state 

A. just and equal tera per show, 

That all who see thee rich and great 
May deem thee worthy to be so. 



ON PALLAS BATHING. 

FROM A HYMN OF CAlIMACJlUS. 

Non oils of balmy scent produce, 
Nor mirrour for Minerva's use, 
Ye nymphs who lave her ; she, array 'd 
In genuine beauty, scorns their aid. 
Not even when they left the skies 
To seek on Ida's head the prize 
From Paris' hand, did Juno deign. 
Or Pallas in the crystal plain 
Of Simois' stream her locks to trace, 
Or in the mirrour's polish'd face, 
Thoug'' Venus ofi. with anxious care 
Adjusted twice a single hair. 



295 



TO DEMOSTHENIS. 



It flatters and deceives thy view, 
This mirrour of ill polish'd orej 
/ For were it just, and told thee true, 

Thou would'st consult it never more. 



A SIMILAR CHARACTER. 

You give your cheeks a rosy stain, 
With washes dye your hair. 

But paint and washes both are vain 
To give a youthful air. 

Those wrinkles mock your daily toil, 

No labour will efface 'em, 
You wear a mask of smoothest oil, 

Yet still with ease we trace 'em. 

An art so fruitless then forsake, 

Which though you much excel in, 

Y ou never can contrive to make 
Old Hecuba young Helen. 



296 ^ 



ON AN UGLY FELLOW 

Beware, my friend ! of crystal brook, 
Or foi.intain, lest that hideous hook, 

Thy nose, thou chance to see ; 
Narcissus' fate would then be thine, 
And self-detested thou wouldst pine, 

As self-enaicour'd he. 



ON BATTERED BEAUTV, 



Hair, wax, rouge, honey, teeth, you buy, Pl 

A multifarious store ! 
A mask at once would all supply, 

Nor would it cost you more. 



ON A THIEF. 

When Aulus, the nocturnal thief, made prize 
Of Hermes, swift-wing'd envoy of the skies, 
Hermes, Arcadia's king, the thief divine, 
Who, when an infant, stole Apollo's kine, 
And whom, as arbiter and overseer 
Of our gymnasuck sports, we planted here; 
" Hermes," he cried, "you meet no new disaster; 
'* Ofttimes the pupil goes beyond his master," 



297 



ON PEDIGREE, 

FROM EPICHARMUS. 

My mother, if thou love me, name no more 
My noble birth ! Sounding at every breath 
My noble birth, thou kill'?t me. Thither fly, 
As to their only refuge, all from whom 
Nature withholds all good besides ; they boast 
Their noble birth, conduct us to the tombs 
Of their forefathers, and from age to age 
Ascending, trumpet their illustrious race : 
But whom hast thou beheld, or canst thou name, 
Deriv'd from no forefather ? Such a man 
Lives not ; for how could such be born at all ? 
And if it chance, that native of a land 
Far distant, or in infancy depriv'd 
Of all his kindred, one, who cannot trace 
His origin, exist, why deem him sprung 
From baser ancestry than theirs, who can ?■ 
My mother ! he, whom nature at his birth 
Endow'd with virtuous qualities, although 
An iEthiop and a slave, is nobly born. 



298 



ON ENVY. 

FiTY, says the Theban bard, 
From my wishes I discard ; 
Envy, let me rather be, 
Rather far a theme for thee ! 
Pity to distress is shown, 
Envy to the great alone — 
So the Theban — But to shine 
Less conspicuous be mine ! 
I prefer the golden mean 
Pomp and penury between ; 
For alarm and peiil wait 
Ever on the loftiest state, 
And the lowest, to the end, 
Obloquy and scorn attend. 



BY PHILEMON. 

Oft we enhance our ills by discontent, 
And give them bulk, beyond what nature meant. 
A parent, brother, friend deceas'd, to cry — 
" He's dead indeed, but he was bom to die — " 
Such temperate grief is suited to the size 
And burthen of the loss ; is just and wise. 
But to exclaim, " Ah ! wherefore was I born, 
''Thus to be left, for ever thus forlorn .^" 



299 

Who thus laments his loss, invites distresa, 
And magnifies a wo that might be less, 
Through dull despondence to his lot resigned, 
And leaving reason's remedy behind. 



BY MOSCHUS. 

I SLEPT, when Venus enter'd : to my bed 
A Cupid in her beautious hand she led, 
A basliful-seeming boy, and thus she said : 

" Shepherd receive my little one ! I bring 
" An untaught love, whom thou must teach to sing.'' 
She said, and left him. 1 suspecting nought 
Many a sweet strain my subtile pupil taught, 
How reed to reed Pan first with osier bound. 
How Pallas form'd the pipe of softest sound. 
How Hermes gave the lute, and how the quire 
Of Phoebus owe to Plioebus' self the lyre. 
Such were my themes ; my themes nought heede(^ 

he. 
But ditties sangof am'rous sort to me. 
The pangs, that mortals and immortals prove 
From Venus' influence, and the darts of love. 
Thus was the teacher by the pupil taught ; 
His lessons 1 retain'd, and mine forgot. 



300 

EPIGRAMS, 

TRANSLATED FROM THE LATIN OF OWE.X. 

IN IGNORANTEM ARROGANTEM LINUM. 

C'aptivum, Line, te tenet ignorantia duplex. 
Scis nihil, et nescis te quoque scire nihil. 

ON ONE IGNORANT AND ARROGANT. 

Thou mayst of double ign'rance boast, 
Who know'st not, that thou nothing know'st. 

PRUDENS SIMPLICITAS, 

Ut nulli nocuisse velisj imitare columbam .- 
Serpentem, utposfdt nemo nocere tibi. 

PRUDENT SIMPLICITY. 

That thou mayst injure no man, dove-like be, 
\nd serpent-like, that none may injure thee I 



301 



AD AMICUM PAUPEREM. 

Est male 7iunc J Utinam in pejus sors omnia vertat; 
Svccedunt summis optima scepe rruxlis. 

TO A FRIEND IN DISTRESS. 

I WISH tliy lot, now bad, still worse, my friend ; 
For when at worst, they say, things always mend. 



Omnia me dum junior essem, scire putabam .- 
Quo scio plut, hoc me nunc scio scir&^minus. 

When little more than boy in age, 
I deein'd inyself almost a sage ; 
But no".T "ipem worthier to be styl'd, 
For isnorancp — almost a child. 



LEX T ALIO MS. 

MajoruT^ vumquam, Aule, le^ls mnnximenla Ins- 
ru^r. : 
M'r''im r?', pn'erita" si Inn sr.rip'n Jc.gat. 



302 



RETALIATION. 



Tbb works of ancient bards divine, 
Auliis, thou scorn'st to read ; 

And should posterity read thine, 
It would be strange indeed ! 



DE ORTU ET OCCASU. 

Sole oriente, tut reditus a morte memento 
Sis memar occasuHt sole cadente, tui ! 

SUNSET AND SUNRISE. 

CoNTEMPLATK, whcn the sun declines, 
Thy death, with deep reflection ! 

And when again he rising shines, 
Thy day of resurrection ! 



303 



TRANSLATIONS 

FROM 

THE FABLES OF GAY. 

LEPUS MULTIS AMICUS. 

Lvsus amicltia est, uni nisi dedita, ceii fit, 
Simpliceni nexus fcedere, liisiis amor. 

Incerto genitore puer,non saepe paternae 
Tutamen novit, deliciasque domus : 

Quiqne sibi fidos fore raultos sperat, amicus, 
Mirum est huic misero si ferat ullus opeui. 

Comis erat, uiitisque, et nolle et velle paratus 

Cum quovis, Gaii more modoque, Lepus. 
Ille, quot in syivis et quot spatiantur in agris 

Quadrupedes, norat conciliare sibi ; 
Et q'lisque innocuo, invitoque lacessere quenquam 

Labra tenus saltern fidus amicus erat. 
Ortum sub lucis duin pressa cubilia linquit, 

Rorantes herbas, pabula sueta, petens, 
Venatorum audit clangores pone sequentem, 

Fulmirieumque sonum territus erro fugit. 
Corda pavor pulsat, sursum sedet, erigit aures, 

JRespicit, et sentit jam prope adesse necem. 



304 

Utque canes fallat late circuiuvagus, iliuc, 

L'ndeabiit, inira cal'.iditate redit; 
Viribus at fraciis tandeui se projicit ultro 
In media. Kiisei'um semianimeinque via, 
Vix ibi stratus, equisouituni pedis audit, ot, ohspc 

Quam Iseta adventu cor agitatur ec|ui ! 
Dorsum (inquit) mihi, ciiaae, tuura concede, 
tuoque 
Auxilio nares fallere, vimque canum. 

Me mens, ut no^ti, pes prodit fidus amicus 

Fert quodcunque lubens, nee grave sentil, onus. 
Belle miselle lepuscule, (equus respondet) auiara 

Omnia quae tibi sunt, sunt et amai-a milii. 
Veriim age— gume animos — niulti, me pone, bo- 
nique 
Adveniuul, quorum sis cito salvus ope. 
Proximus armciili dominus bos solicitatus 
Auxilium his verbis se dare posse negat. 
ftuando quadrupedum, quot vivunt, nullus amicum 

Me nescire potest usque fuisse tibi, 
Libertate sequus, quam cedit amicus amico, 
Utar, et absque u)etu ue tibi displiceam ; 
Hinc me raandat amor. Juxta istum uiessis acer- 
vum 
Me mea, prae cunctis cl'.ara, juvenca nianet ; 
Et quis non ultro quaecunque negotia iinquit, 
Pareat ut dominae, cum vocat ipsa, suje ? 
Neu me crudelera dicas — di.scedo— sed liircus, 

Cujus ope efl'ugias integer, nircus adest, 
Febrem (ait hircus) babes. Heu, sicca ut Umiioa 
langnent I 



305 

Utque caput, collo deficiente, jacet ! 
Hirsutum mihi tergmn j etforsan laeserit jEgruw, 

Vellcre eris melius fultus, ovisqiie venit. 
Me luihi fecit onus natura, ovis inqnit, anhelans 

Sustineo lan^e pondera tanta raeae ; 
Me nee velocem nee fortem jacto, solentque 

Nob etiam sasvi dilacerare canes. 
Ultimus accedit vitulus, vituluraque precatur 

Ut periturum alias ocyus eripiat. 
ReiTiue ego, respondet vitulus, susc^pero tantam, 

IVon depulsus adhuc ubere, natus iieri ? 
Te, quem maturi canibus validique relinquunt, 

Incolumem potero reddere parvus ego ? 
Preeterea toUens quem illi aversantur, amicis 

Forte parura videar consuluisse meis. 
Ignoscas oro. I'idissima dissociintur 

Corda, et t;ile tibi sat liquet esse meum. 
Ecce autein ed calces cauis est ! te quanta pe- 
rempto 

Tristitia est nobis ingruitura ! Vale ! 



AVARUS ET PLUTUS. 

IcTA fenestra Euri flatu stridebat, avarus 
Ex somno trepidus surgit, opuraque memor. 

Lata silenttr humi ponit vestigia, quemque 
Respicit ad sonitura respicieusque treiiiit ; 

Angustissiraa quaeque foianiina lampade visit, 
Ad vectes, obices, fertque refertque nianuni. 



306 

Deiu reseiut crebris jiinctam cotnpagibus arcain 

Extiltansque ouiues conspicit iutns opes. 
Sid tandem furiis iiltricibus actus ob aitcs 

Uueis sua res tenuis creverat in cumulum. 
Coutortis uianibus nunc stat, nunc pectora pulsans 

Aurum execratur, pernicieinque vocat ; 
O mibi, ait, luisero mens quam tranquilla fuissetj 

Hoc celasset adhuc si modo terra malum ! 
Kunc autem virtus ipsa est venalis ; et aurum 

Quid contra vitii tormina sveva valet ? 
O inimicum aurum ! O homini infestissima pesti», 

Cui datur illecebras vincere posse tuas ? 
Aurum homines suasit contemnere quicquid ho^ 
nestum est, 

Et piaeter nomen nil retinere boni. 
Aurum cuncta mali per terras semina sparsit ; 

x\urum nocturnis furibus arma dedit. 
Bella aocet fortes, timidosque ad pessiraa ducit, 

Fcedifragas artes, muitiplicesque dolos, 
Nee viiii quicquam est, quod non inveneris ortum 

Ex malesuada auri saLMilegaque fame. 
Dixit, et ingemuit , Plutusque suum sibi numen 

Ante oculos, ira fervidus, ipsie stetit. 
Arcam cl<ui»it avarus, et era horrentia rugis 

Ostrndens; treraulum sic Deus increpuit. 
duestibus his raucis mihi cur, stulte, obstrepis 
aures ? 

Ista tui sirnilis tristia quisquecanit. 
Commaculavi egone humanum genus, improbe !' 
Culpa, 

Du:n rapls, et captas omnia, culpa tua est. 



307 

Mene execrandum censes, quia tam pretiosa 

Criininibus fiunt pemicio«a tuis ? 
Virtulis specie, pulchro ceu pallio amictus 

Qui?que catus nebiilo sordida facta tegit. 
Atque siiis manibus commissa potentia, durum 

El dirum subito vergit ad imperiuin. 
Hii;c, liimium dum latro aurum detruditin arcaru, 

Idem aurum latet in pectore pestis edax. 
Nutrit avaritiam et fastum, suspendere adnnco 

Suddet naso inopes, el vitium omne docet. 
Aun et larga probo si copia conligit, instar 

Roris dilapsi ex aeliiere cuncta beat : 
Turn, quasi nuraen iue*set, alit, fovet, educat 
orbos, 

Et viduas lacrymis ora ligare vetat. 
Quo sua ciimina jure auro derivet avarus, 

Aurum animee pretium qui cupit atque capit ? 
L^gp pari glndium incusetsicarius atrox 

r?p-o jiomine, ct ferrum judicet esse reum. 



PAPILIO ET LIMAX. 

Qn subito ex imis reruni in fastijii surg 
iS'-.itlvas sordes, quicqiiid ngatur, olet. 






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